


In Flames

by clawstoagunfight



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Bottom Derek, F/F, Guns, Human Derek Hale, M/M, Rimming, Slow Build, Team Human, Top Stiles Stilinski, Violence, Weapons, Werewolf Disease
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-09
Updated: 2013-05-13
Packaged: 2017-11-28 16:13:29
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 10
Words: 46,483
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/676344
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/clawstoagunfight/pseuds/clawstoagunfight
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In a world fraught with a virus that causes the death of all werewolves, how can Derek Hale, the sole survivor, learn to live life as human? Can he learn to forgive himself as he seeks help from the one person he least expects?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Marked as Explicit because there will be explicit content eventually.
> 
> Beta'd by B (who I am eternally grateful for).

He’s lost; drifting in the wind without an anchor, living without a thread to keep him grounded. He knows he should go, leave, never come back. Everything inside of him pulls and hurts and aches. It would be better, he knows, to drift away with the storm; to weave in the wind like a fallen, dying leaf—crumbling in the elements, quelled into the dirt, trampled underfoot like something meaningless, something that someone forgot once used to live and thrive.

Things would be better if he weren’t here; if he could leave the only place that he can’t ever seem to escape. He’s sick of the nightmares—sick of the ghosts and the memories and the dark, lingering thoughts that haunt his tired eyes and mind. He is an inmate of his own making. He’s been cursed since the moment he was born, doomed from his first breath to live a life of pain and misery. There’s nothing he can do to stop it, nothing he can do to make the ache that always settles in his chest go away; it grows and grows, spreads into something maleficent that steals his breath like it steals the life from his body, killing him slowly from the inside.

Derek’s curse isn’t the wolf. No, the wolf was something he knew, something he understood; it was a part of him, like a limb or an organ. The wolf was something tangible, something real. His curse though—that is something else entirely.

His curse is something less defined, less solid and valid. It is more like something akin to the mark of Cain; something evil, some penance for all of his past sins. And there are so, so many sins. He needs to atone, needs it like air to breathe, but it’s something he can never get. That’s his curse. Forever carrying the weight of his past, forever steeped in sadness and guilt and shame. He’s stuck in the past while the world moves forward and forgets. But he…he can’t forget. It’s there, every time he closes his eyes, every time he feels the air fill his lungs. It’s always there, lingering in the air around him, surrounding him like a shroud that he can’t break through, can’t escape from. It’s killing him slowly, witling away a little bit more of him with each passing sunset.

Each night it gets darker, gets a little colder. Each morning the sunrise gets a little bit lonelier, a little bit more violent as it breaks the sky in bloody colors, as it drenches the world in fiery light that burns away at something deep inside of him. Each day he feels another thing inside crumble, feels another part cave in.

The days have been like this for a long time. Too long. He is a wonderer, desperately searching for anything to guide him, anything to give him a sign. But nothing appears, and it’s been too long, too long for any person to drift and die without consequence. He feels himself wearing thin. He feels it in the way his tired eyes are always sore, in the way he can’t stop his hands from shaking, he feels it in the way his limbs are a little weaker every day, feels it in the way he can’t rely on his senses anymore—not in the way he used to, not in the way he always has.

He isn’t unbreakable. Not anymore. Maybe he never really was.

In hindsight, he’s surprised he lasted as long as he has. It isn’t something he ever expected, isn’t something he ever really wanted. Once again, he is the survivor. Once again, he gets to live while everyone else dies around him; gets to, like it’s a reward. It’s his curse; to always be the one left behind, to always have to sit and watch the life fade from the people he cares about.

It kills him, cuts deeper than a wolf’s bane blade, hits the deepest part of his heart. It cuts into the place that still feels, the place that selfishly wishes he could just be the one to die, so that he could save everyone else from his curse. He is nothing. He’s the one that deserves to die.

He’s the one that the disease should’ve spread to. It should’ve taken him in the night like it took so many others.

He doesn’t waste the energy to think about how unfair it is. He gave up on fair when his family was trapped and torched in his home, when he was deceived by the first person he had ever trusted that wasn’t family. He was betrayed, and he betrayed his family. They died because of him. Because of his own stupidity, he could never hear his father laugh again, never feel his mother’s arms wrap around him, he could never play with his cousins, or read to his younger brother. He could never listen to his family howl into the night; never feel that blanket of peace spread over him, knowing that he was safe and loved and protected. He could never have that again, and it was all his fault.

Derek could never get that back, not even if he tried. But he doesn’t try, knows he doesn’t deserve it, not any of it. He knows that he’s paying for his sins. He knows why bad things keep happening and he is always the one left alive, left to remember, left to sink into the guilt and the anger and the shame of his mistakes. He deserves it. In some selfish way, he’s thankful for the pain, thankful that he is suffering. He needs it, needs the reminder that something in the world merits his pain, gives it to him in such a cruel way, over and over and over again.

It’s the only thing he’s known for so long. He wears the pain like a second skin, like it can save him. He likes to think maybe it can. Maybe his suffering could somehow make up for everything he’s ever done to the people around him. Maybe, in some small way, it could make up for the deaths his life has caused, make up for the people who are gone because of his foolish mistakes.

He doesn’t know when it started, doesn’t know what triggered it, but he remembers the letter. It was years after he came back to Beacon Hills, years after he chased the ghost of his sister across the country. It was before he knew just how far down the rabbit hole goes. It was after he had built his pack, after he had fought and won for the right to lead, to protect them in what little way he could. Maybe that was the spark, the straw that broke the camel’s back. He should’ve seen it coming, should’ve known that things were going too well, that everyone was starting to get too happy.

Then the letter came.

~

Derek remembers it was written on old parchment that felt more like skin than paper under Derek’s fingers. The lack of a return address made him curious and his curiosity got the best of him. He opened it while the pack was over, celebrating their high school graduation. They were having a party. All of his wolves were there; Scott, Boyd, Isaac, Peter. Stiles, Lydia, and Danny were there too. Jackson had even showed up as a surprise, bringing some wolves from the territory he was staying in with him. There were also some of the wolves from the pack in New York that Derek and Laura had stayed with after the fire. He felt surrounded by the closest thing to family he’d had in a long time. Derek was happy, maybe honest-to-god happy for the first time since Laura died.

 It was a stupid mistake, such a small thing to do, but it was the catalyst. He knew as soon as he opened the letter, as soon as the brilliant blue powder drifted into the air in a flurry that coated everything in its wake and stuck to the surface of their skin like a leach. He tried to warn the rest of the pack, tried to get the words out to tell them to run, to leave, but the powder was seeping into his skin, into his blood. It was paralyzing his body, freezing his mind. All Derek could do was watch as the dust landed on the people closest to him, watch as the paralytic set in. he saw some of the wolves from the other territories running toward the door, saw Peter and Jackson pulling the humans out with them.

Derek was sitting on the couch, with Scott and Boyd on either side of him. Isaac was on the floor, just out of Derek’s line of sight. The powder was burning his skin, boiling the blood inside of him, working its way in to his system. It was the most intense kind of wolfs bane he’d ever been exposed to. It felt like it was burning everything he was, ripping him apart inside and out and all he could do was sit there and feel it burn away the wolf inside of him, feel it set fire to every single nerve and cell of his body.

He was dying. He could feel it. And he knew the wolves around him were dying too. He was their alpha. He could sense the life slowly start to drain from them, feel their energy deplete and their lights slowly start to stifle out. It was agony; the worst kind of torture. They were all dying, all having their life force leached from their bodies and Derek couldn’t do anything to stop it. He was their alpha. He was supposed to be able to protect them.

He’d been trying, trying so hard to do just that after Boyd and Erica had been attacked. It had cut so deep when Erica had died, had killed a part of the pack. It took a long time for them to get over it and Derek pledged to never let them suffer life that again.

But here they were, all slowly dying, and Derek could do nothing.

He felt Isaac go first; the weakest of his wolves, worn down by life, unable to be completely fixed even with his supernatural senses. He felt Isaac’s death like a flare in his mind and he knew the men next to him could feel it too. Boyd was the second. Derek felt him struggle next to him, heard through the roar of the flames in his head the sluggish sound of his heartbeat before it fizzled out, before his breath came to a raspy halt. Derek felt the tears in his eyes, felt the saline burn like ice as they slid from his lids and down his cheeks. He tried to open his mouth, tried to turn his head just a little, to look at Scott, to tell him to hold on, to say something, anything. But Derek couldn’t move, couldn’t speak. All he could do was try and keep breathing through the searing, agonizing pain.

It was like nothing he ever felt before. It was like every spec of powder was traveling through his skin, locating one single part inside of him and seeking to annihilate it. It felt worse than being electrocuted, felt worse than any type of pain he’d ever felt before. It was extinguishing everything, taking everything he had built and worked for. It wasn’t just killing him. He would be okay if he would be the only one dying, but he wasn’t. Isaac, Boyd…and Scott, sitting next to him, struggling so hard against the pain, against the hot, burning pain he must be feeling ignite in his blood.

He could sense it, when Scott died. He could feel it like a cord being severed, like a thread being cut. He cursed the fates and their cutting weapons, cursed himself for letting them die, for letting everyone around him die _again_. It cut deep, so deep. It felt like he was losing his family all over again. Scott had been like a brother to him, like a replacement, a second chance at the little brother he’d lost all those years ago. But now he was gone, just like everyone else.

Derek remembers the darkness coming after that. The pain became too much, became a white flare inside of him. He wanted to die, wanted to die so badly and just end the misery. But he didn’t.

Instead, he opened his eyes. It was days—weeks?—later and he was on a cot in the back of the vet’s office, strapped down with scraps of leather that bit into his skin. There was an IV in his arm and he frowned at it, his sluggish mind having trouble realizing why that shouldn’t be there. He was hooked up to so many machines. They looked like hospital machines, shiny and new, monitoring his life. He didn’t know why, didn’t know what was going on. He was alone, staring up at a flickering fluorescent light. He tried to move, but the straps held him down, kept him immobile. He tried to break them, but he felt so unbearably weak that all he could do was close his eyes and let the darkness take him once more.

When he opened his eyes again, Deaton was there, watching him as he blinked into the light, as he once again tried to struggle against the binds.

“I wouldn’t do that if I were you,” he warned, his voice quiet, almost too quiet for Derek to hear. That wasn’t right. Why couldn’t he hear? But Deaton was speaking again, “you don’t want to hurt yourself.”

Derek tried to shake his head, but he could make out the leather across his forehead. He frowned and tried to open his mouth to speak, but the words stuck in his throat.

“Oh, I know what you’re going to say, Derek. You are going to tell me that you’ll heal.” Deaton lifts his eyebrows and levels Derek with a long look, until Derek’s eyes are hurting from the light and he has to blink, has to look away. “Well, I’m here to tell you that no, you won’t heal. Not like you used to.” Deaton takes a syringe and dispenses it into the IV in the back of Derek’s hand. “You’re not going to be able to do a lot of things you used to, I’m afraid. Things have changed, Derek. Oh, how they’ve changed.”

Derek tried to keep listening, but everything was turning blurry and dark.

It was the third time he woke up that he felt it. He knew, even as he opened his eyes what it was. He should’ve known the very first time, should’ve been able to work it out, even in his weak state. He knew what it was, but it wasn’t possible. It shouldn’t’ve been able to happen, not to anyone, but especially not to an alpha. He didn’t know how, didn’t know why, but he knew without a shadow of a doubt what was wrong.

His wolf was gone.

~

Derek stayed with Deaton for another week before he felt strong enough to get up. Even that, the simple stretching and moving of muscles had been a slow agony to his weak limbs. He fell just walking across the room, gripping onto an old x-ray machine to keep his balance. He hated himself, hated the weakness he felt. He never hated anything the way he hated his newly human body.

For the first few weeks, he felt like he was in a constant state of sensory deprivation. Everything felt off kilter. He felt removed from everything by a boundary of too little sensation. He couldn’t hear, see, smell, taste, or touch things the same. It felt so wrong, like he was a stranger in his own skin.

It was only after he could walk across the room without falling down that Deaton told him everything. Derek sat on the cot and listened with ears unwilling to hear. Deaton told him everything. He told Derek how he’d been in a coma for a close to a year, the machines stolen from the hospital and put in this room so that they could keep his life a secret, so that whoever set out the virus would think they achieved what they set out to.

Deaton told him how the powder had been a type of lycanthrope disease, a type of anthrax that specifically targeted werewolves. It had swept the country, killing off the were populace one by one. Jackson and the wolves from his territory had been carriers, unknowingly transporting the sickness inside of them even though they thought they got away. They didn’t know until it was too late, until they arrived home and started to drop like flies, infecting the rest of the pack. The same thing happened to the New York wolves, to every pack across Northern America.

They were dead, all of the werewolves in the country. They had been killed or the wolf had been burned out of them by the virus. Only the alphas survived, and even then, most of them died. As humans, their immune systems were weak, weaker than normal. They succumbed to sicknesses easily, not having built up their immune systems over the course of their life. Everything they’d been exposed to as werewolves still lingered somewhere inside of them. Many alphas fought the burning virus only to die from some common illness. But even they had been hunted, vulnerable now without the wolf to protect them, killed off one by one by hunters.

It had been almost a year, and Derek was the sole survivor.

Everyone, his whole pack, wiped out. Every wolf he had ever met was dead now. He tried to say something, anything, to Deaton, but he had no words. He elected to stay silent. What could he say? What could he possibly say to make up for what he did? Sorry wouldn’t bring Scott back, or Isaac, or Boyd, or Peter, or Jackson or any of the other innocent people who died because of his foolish choices.

Derek stayed for another few weeks before it became too much. He couldn’t stand the thought of staying there any longer, of wasting away in a back room in the vet’s office, safe and sound while he had single-handedly caused the fall and destruction of his entire species.

~


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Derek finds shelter in a storm.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Half beta'd by B, half un beta'd, so I'll take credit for any mistakes.

Derek has trouble focusing now. It’s like he lost all ability to control his emotions and thoughts when he lost the wolf. His control has been shattered, broken, letting loose a flood of feelings he can’t stop.  He finds himself becoming overwhelmed by his emotions easily. It was like before, the wolf kept some of his emotions distant from him, but now, without it…he feels like a livewire. He feels like he is feeling too much, but feeling nothing at the same time. He doesn’t know what to think anymore. Everything in his head is screaming at him to walk away, to leave, to do anything other than just stay in this town.

He’s never felt as alone as he does right now. He’s never felt so fragile, breakable. He’s never felt so damn vulnerable. He doesn’t know how to handle this. Everything he’s ever known has been stripped from him, burned out of him by the virus. He feels weak, pathetic, utterly worthless.

He feels…terrified. Scared, so scared. It’s a constant ache, a knot in his stomach. He can’t sleep, can barely eat. He is drifting away, losing more of himself every day, losing more of who he thought he was. Some days it feels like he’s going insane, like there is something inside of him that is twisting his mind, that is breaking him down from the inside out. It’s his curse, he guesses. It’s the only thing he ever seems to keep; his only constant.

It started when he was at the vet’s, continues now even though he’s gone. He has dreams—horrible, awful dreams—where he is still a wolf, still feels his senses like they used to be. Sometimes he can still see what he saw through the eyes of an alpha, he can still smell everything, sense everything around him. But then he wakes up and he remembers.

It’s been over a week since he left Deaton’s office, been over a week since he’s been drifting in the wind. Derek thanks what lucky stars he has that its summer in California, that it’s warm enough for him to sleep on the streets, to hide in some forgotten alcove and let the world pass him by, let the strangers overlook the pale man in the black leather jacket sleeping on the sidewalk.

But tonight, a storm is settling over Beacon Hills. The wind is whipping through him, the rain lashing at his face, soaking into his clothing, weighing him down. It’s darkening the skyline, casting a wet glow over the roads and the sidewalks and Derek knows he needs to find shelter, somewhere, anywhere.

He doesn’t know where to go, doesn’t know where to turn. There’s no one left to run too, no one left to help him other than Deaton and he can’t put him in harm’s way, not if there are still hunters out there.

So he walks. He walks to his apartment, hoping for something, anything really, but only finds that all of his possessions have been put into a storage locker. He doesn’t know who has the key, doesn’t know who his next of kin would even be considered. Everyone he put in his will is dead now. He doesn’t know who everything would’ve naturally fallen to, but he needs to find out, needs his car and some money so he can leave this place and never return.

He’s out of options by the time the sun starts to set once again, turning the dusk cold. He’s walking toward his old house before he can stop himself, heading toward the outskirts of town before he even realizes where his feet are leading him. He stops just on the outside of town, his body aching, limbs stiff and sore from so many months of lying immobile, cold and damp from the rain that is settling an ache in his bones. He’s breathing heavily, panting out puffs of air into the dark night.

The road is empty and Derek looks up into a moonless, starless sky, the rain lashing out around him. It hits him like a brick. He’s lonely; the kind of bone-weary lonely that only hits when you know that you’ve truly lost everything that ever mattered to you. He looks around himself. He’s alone in the middle of a storm, on an empty road, heading toward the burnt-out shell of a house that his family burned to death in, where his wolves died in. He’s heading to a place where he lost everything; twice. And now he’s going back again, tempting fate. What will the third time bring him?

He forces his feet to keep moving, even though every muscle in his body aches and his eyes are starting to droop. He’s stumbling through the forest, running into trees and tripping on wet, loose roots and fallen branches. He grew up in these woods, knew them like the back of his hand once, but now it’s like everything is turning against him and he curses all of it. Thunder crashes somewhere over head and all Derek wants is to be out of this stupid storm.

It takes longer than it should for him to make his way to the house, but when he does, he feels his limbs collapse under him at the sight.

It can’t be the same house. It can’t be. The last time he saw it had been at the party. The pack had been slowly working on renovating it, but had only just barely finished the first floor by the time graduation had rolled around, but now…

The house is completely finished. It stands in all its former glory, all white wood and faux-brick façade. It looks just like the picture he still has from before his family died. It’s stunning, immaculate, like a beacon in the darkness. He feels something in him clench sweetly and he closes his eyes against it.

It’s his house, his home. So much better and worse than he could ever imagine. The house, like this, makes him feel like he’s still 16, like he could waltz through the front door and find his mother baking cookies or his little brother growling at his cousins like the spitfire he had always been. It was a horrible thing, like putting water in front of a man dying from thirst, but spilling the cup and letting the water fall to the ground.

He swallows hard and makes his shaky limbs go forward, makes his feet step one in front of the other until he’s closed the distance between himself and the front door. He stops at the porch, though, confusion coloring his need to go home. He doesn’t know what’s going on. Why would his house be rebuilt? Why would someone care enough to put all the work and money into it? Who? Who would do something like this? Who would care?—

Derek is startled from questions by the sudden illumination of a light through one of the windows. He can barely make out the outline of a man before the porch lights are flashing brightly, blinding him. He throws an arm over his eyes in an attempt to save his sight, but he is blinking out spots into the damp sleeve of his jacket even as he hears the front door open and a voice say “I don’t know what the fuck you think you’re doing lurking around in the dark, but this is private property, so you need to leave before I call the cops and report a trespasser, okay buddy?” The voice asks in a way that manages to sound semi-threatening and ironic and not the least bit buddy-buddy all at once and Derek is dropping his arm and staring open-mouthed at the man in the doorway.

He looks different, older, but that may have something to do with the gun that is in his hand and leveled at Derek. Derek just blinks at him, moving his hands up and splaying them out. He doesn’t know what to expect, doesn’t even really expect him to still recognize him. Derek Hale was presumed dead, after all. So he just holds up his hands and tries not to look the man in the eyes.

How far down Derek Hale has fallen that he can’t even look Stiles Stilinski in the eyes.

But Derek can’t read him anymore, can’t get anything off of him. He can’t rely on knowing Stiles scent or knowing the level of his energy. He can’t feel it anymore, can’t smell him anymore. Stiles used to be so easy to read, an open book really, and now Derek gets nothing. He can’t even read his body language anymore, can’t just read his face and know what he is thinking. This Stiles is different than the boy he used to be, the gun itself is enough evidence of that.

Derek is just so tired, just so unbelievably exhausted. All of the fight goes out of him at once and he sways a little, his tired body getting the best of him. He starts to fall forward and twists until he falls to his knees instead. The sting is immediate, a dull throbbing that is sure to leave what Derek can only assume to be a giant bruise.

“Whoa, hey man, you okay?” Derek watches as he sets the gun down inside and steps out of the doorway in a smooth step that Derek can’t help but envy just a little as he moves closer to him. Stiles brings a hand up to cup his face so he can block out the light and get what Derek assumes to be a better look, “you aren’t drunk are you? Please don’t puke on my porch, I just finished—” But then Stiles stops talking, stops moving at all for a moment before he is all but jumping back from him like he’s been burned. “Derek?” his voice is small, unsteady, but Derek closes his eyes at it.

All he can do is nod, too weary to do anything else when all of his energy is focused on not falling face-first onto the porch, but the movement of his head makes his body start to lose balance and he’s falling forward again. He doesn’t even have the energy to bring his arms up to break his fall.

But then there is a flurry of movement and Stiles is there, kneeling down in front of him with a hand on his shoulder. His dark eyes are looking at Derek like he’s a ghost—and maybe he is. Stiles looks like he wants to say something, anything, but his lips harden into a line and he stands. He helps Derek up, slinging Derek’s arm over his shoulders and wrapping an arm around his waist, even though Derek is sopping wet and he’s surely getting the side of Stiles’ shirt wet. Stiles helps him inside the house and deposits him into a chair before he can fall over again.

He looks down at Derek, his arms crossed over his chest, his body a taut line. Like this, Derek can’t help but notice how different he looks. He’s older, Derek knows, but he _looks_ older. His hair is longer, his body bulkier in the way that Derek knows is made of more muscles, his face is leaner, like he finally shed some of his baby fat. There are lines on his face, around his eyes and his hard-pressed mouth. He notices the bags under Stiles’ eyes. He looks sad, worn, and Derek wonders fleetingly if he still laughs.

But then Derek remembers all over again, remembers that most of Stiles’ friends are dead, that his best friend was killed by Derek’s stupidity and he looks away from those intense dark eyes to the hands he’s desperately clenching in his lap.

Stiles won’t have that though. He’s kneeling down in front of Derek and placing his hands on the water-logged denim of Derek’s knees. “Derek,” he breathes out his name and that same deep place inside of him twists, “how…how are you alive? I thought—I thought all of you had died.” He sounds so sad, so full of grief that Derek closes his eyes against it. He shakes his head, unable—unwilling—to speak.

He must’ve closed his eyes for too long, because when he opens them again Stiles is gone. Derek has a moment of panic, a moment where he thinks this was a dream, where he thinks that maybe he dreamed up Stiles. Derek doesn’t know if he could take losing him—losing even just the figment of him—losing another person, again. He makes a movement to stand up but then Stiles is stepping back into his line of sight and is pulling Derek up from his seat with a shushing sound that would normally be enough to make him angry, but right now he can’t feel anything past his exhaustion.

Stiles half-drags, half-shuffles Derek along with him until they walk into another room and Derek sees that it’s the living room. He takes in how different it looks, but how much it resembles the family room he grew up in. The fireplace casts a soft orange glow, warming Derek’s cool, damp skin. He sees the couch made up with a pillow and blanket and turns toward Stiles, maybe to say something, maybe just to look at him again, but then Stiles is letting go of him and helping him shrug out of his ruined leather jacket and setting it aside. He reaches for the hem of Derek’s shirt, lifting the water-logged material up over his head, until Derek is just in the semi-dry tank and then Stiles hands are fumbling with the button of his fly, pulling the drenched denim down his cold legs until he’s standing in just his boxers, shivering with the chill. Stiles sets the wet clothing by the fire so it can dry before he helps Derek down to the couch, pulling the blanket over him.

Stiles looks at Derek for a long moment, but then he sighs and turns, walking out of the room.

~

Derek wakes up drooling to the smells of bacon and coffee drifting in from what he assumes is the nearby kitchen. Even to his now human nose, it smells amazing, makes his empty stomach growl in protest. He opens his eyes and looks up at a white-washed ceiling. It takes a few moments for the events of yesterday to click into place, but when they do he sits up from his makeshift bed on the couch, notes the way the daylight is flickering in through the windows. The storm must be over then, he thinks.

He hears the distant sound of cupboards clattering as he stands, moving his stiff limbs, stretching his cramping, sore muscles. He sees the folded set of flannel pants and the t-shirt lying nearby with a note that has his name on it. He slips the close on over his tank and boxers, thankful for the extra warmth. He’s wearing the pajamas Stiles gave him and the t-shirt rides up the smallest bit when he stretches his arms over his head. He sighs into the empty room, listens to the sounds of life in the next room.

It’s weird, being here, seeing the house as something living when it’s been a corpse, a shell of something for so long. Hearing sounds of life, seeing the refurbished and furnished house, it’s like a dream. It’s like a tender sting that leaves him breathless, that makes it almost seem like the past can move on, like it can overcome in some small way all of the hurts that its endured. But it’s an empty kind of healing; empty of the people that used to matter most. They are lost now. There’s no way the refinished house can somehow erase the countless people that have died inside its walls, no way the coat of pain and polished floors could cover up all the ash, all the memories, all of the heartache.

He closes his eyes, fights back the flood of memories, and walks through the foyer. He passes the stairway, watches it gleam in the light of day, before he makes it into the kitchen. Stiles is standing in front of the stove, cooking what Derek sees is eggs. He smells the coffee, hears the sizzle and spit of the bacon. He stands there for a moment, watching the man move, watching his sure hands scramble the eggs, watches those hands flip the meat. He watches the lean line of his back, watches as the muscles of his shoulders bunch under the thin fabric of his t-shirt.

He watches for what is probably too long and he must make some sound, some movement, because Stiles is looking back over his shoulder at Derek. He looks like he can’t decide if he wants to smile or frown at him, so instead he elects to just look him up and down before he’s speaking, “Well, looks like my clothes fit you well enough now, Derek.” He laughs, but it sounds empty, “I don’t know if it’s a testament to how much muscle I’ve gained in the last year or how much you’ve lost.” He turns back to the stove then and Derek swallows hard, moving further into the room, but then stopping just inside the threshold, unsure of what to do and not having any words to say.

Stiles turns off the burners, places the bacon on a paper towel and grabs some plates. He spoons some eggs onto two of the plates and adds some strips of bacon to each, leaving a decent amount of both eggs and bacon left on the stove. He turns back toward Derek and frowns. “Well, don’t just stand there,” he walks around and heads to the small kitchen table nook, placing both plates down, “Grab some coffee and then come and eat. You look like a starving man. Not a good look for you, dude.” He shakes his head and sits down, looking back at Derek until he starts to move.

He goes straight for the coffee, finding a mug and filling it, before heading to the table. He sits down opposite Stiles and takes the fork, digging into the food in front of him with a relish and a hunger he hasn’t felt since he woke up in the vet’s office. He knows he should eat slower, but it’s like all of his dampened hunger is roaring to the surface and he can’t shut it down, can’t stamp it out again.

He doesn’t even notice when Stiles reaches across the table and grabs his wrist, “Whoa, slow down, man. Don’t want to make yourself sick.” He nods to the plate, “why not try tasting it, yeah?” and then he is letting go of his wrist and Derek feels a little embarrassed so all he does is nod and duck his head, picking up a crispy piece of bacon before slowly biting and chewing it. The food really is good. He should probably thank Stiles for feeding him, thank him for letting him stay the night, but he doesn’t—he can’t.

He’s finishing his coffee when he hears it; footsteps from above. He stills like a dear in headlights, heart pounding and ricocheting in his chest. He looks at Stiles with wide eyes, but Stiles is still eating, oblivious to the turmoil inside of Derek. He hears the footsteps descending the stairs and stands up in a rush, so fast it almost makes him dizzy.

He can’t do this. He shouldn’t be here. He doesn’t know why Stiles is living in his old house, doesn’t know why it makes him sad and happy all at once, but he accepts that. It’s okay; he can deal with it, because it’s Stiles. Stiles had been back, had been almost like one of the wolves to Derek. He had saved Derek’s life, saved everyone’s life on more than one occasion. He had protected them, all of them. So, yeah, he could handle Stiles living here, making this house into a home. But the thought of someone else here, of someone not pack, someone that had never been pack, it made him panic, made everything feel so _wrong_ and he can’t handle it, can’t handle the anxiety clawing at his throat. He needs to leave, needs to get out before he ruins another person’s life—again.

He’s moving toward the front door before he can really stop himself, but then there is an hand on his shoulder, gripping into his skin like a vice, holding him back, “Whoa, hey, Derek, what’s wrong?”

But Derek is just standing there, looking toward the stairs. Stiles must hear it then, the slow and steady click of heals on wood. He turns Derek around until they are facing each other. Like this, they are the same height and Derek is looking into his quizzical dark eyes. “It’s just Lydia,” he says slowly, quietly, like he is talking to a puppy or a baby, trying to show in the tone of his voice that there’s nothing to be afraid of. But Derek’s eyes are still wide and his heart is still racing. Lydia?—Why is she here? Why are any of them here?

Stiles loosens the grip on Derek’s shoulder and the skin aches a little bit, but then Stiles is dragging his fingers over it as he drops his hand away and Derek shivers. Stiles is looking at him like he’s thinking really hard, like Derek is a puzzle and he’s trying to solve it. “Why are you freaking out about Lydia? I thought—I thought you’d be able to hear their heartbeats, or at least smell them or something.” His dark eyes are searching, looking for answers that Derek wants to give him, but he can’t. He opens his mouth to tell Stiles that so much has changed, that he can’t do anything he used to be able to.

A loud scream erupts from the entrance of the kitchen and it breaks Derek’s train of thought.

~

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow. Two chapters in as many days. I just cant stop writing this story. 
> 
> As always, any and all comments and/or criticisms are accepted and appreciated!


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The explanation.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Beta'd by B, who is the driving force behind everything I write and my constant motivation.

“Who the fuck are you? What the fuck is going on?” Lydia Martin’s strawberry-blond curls are swinging dangerously, like pendulums, as she looks between Derek and Stiles, her green eyes blazing. “You can’t be here!” She’s looking at Derek now, glaring, “You can’t be fucking real.” And then all at once she is throwing her arms around Derek’s neck and he is stumbling backwards with the force. “Derek,” she’s crying into his shoulder, “Derek, you’re alive!” She’s holding him so hard that it’s almost starting to get hard for Derek to breathe. “How are you alive?”

But then Stiles is there, pulling Lydia, albeit gently, away from him. He’s pulling her away and whispering something into her ear, slinging an arm around her shoulder. Derek can’t hear what they’re saying, can’t hear even the murmur of Stiles words and he hates it, hates his human senses. Lydia throws Derek a watery look before she composes herself, wipes the tears from her face, and heads toward the stairs. She’s yelling up to the second floor, “Allison! Danny! Get the fuck down here now!” She turns back to Derek and has a huge smile on her face that is lacking in her usual menace, or at least what he can remember of it.

Allison and Danny are here too? Derek breathes out a sigh of relief. It’s not strangers after all then; its people that care, people that knew the pack, were part of the pack. And he knows all of the sudden, that it was them, the four of them that fixed up the house and finished it. They must’ve found all of the blueprints Derek started, must’ve put all the money into it. He doesn’t know how, doesn’t know why it matters to him so much that they continued to build this house even after they thought everyone was dead. But it does, it matters. Derek hears shuffling from above, hears the slam of doors and the footfalls on the stairs.

He can see Lydia in the archway, her back toward Derek, hands splayed out, waving in who Derek could only assume to be the others. Stiles moves back toward Derek, places a comforting hand on his shoulder and gives him a half smile that looks a little too forced, but Derek takes it anyway, takes his own hand and places it over Stiles’. He gives his hand a small squeeze—to let him know that he’s okay now, to thank him for everything he can’t’ve known he’s done—and Stiles’ eyes widen a little bit, before he gently pulls his hand away, turns away from him and walks back over to Lydia.

Derek frowns at his back, not knowing what he’s done wrong, not knowing why Stiles is being so weird, but then there are more bodies entering the room.

“Lydia,” Danny starts as he rounds the corner, “You do realize that you aren’t the boss here right? I mean, just because Allison follows your words as law doesn’t mean the rest of us have to cater to—”

But Danny is stopping in his tracks, right in the threshold of the kitchen, staring toward where Derek is still sort of perched by the table, and he is gapping, open-mouthed like a fish. Like a fish with dimples. He looks older, looks more worn around the edges. But then, he did lose his best friend—just like Stiles lost his. That kind of loss leaves scars, leaves impressions; wears away at people.

He’s just staring at Derek, like he doesn’t know what he’s looking at, and then Allison is running into Danny’s back with a loud ‘oof’ and they both stumble a little bit before Allison is saying “Danny, warn a girl next time” and moving around where he is frozen in the middle of the floor. She’s looking at Lydia, “so what was so important?”

Lydia’s smile is blinding but all she does is move her eyes over Allison’s shoulder toward where Derek is standing by the table. Allison’s head turns a moment later and then her eyes widen and she is stumbling back, grabbing onto Danny’s arm.

“W-what? But—how—” She can’t seem to make the words come out and she falls silent, staring at him.

Danny takes a tentative step forward, dislodging Allison from where she is perched on his arm. “Derek?” He sounds so uncertain that Derek just gives him a small nod, just to show that yes, it’s him.

The next thing he knows he is being pulled into a hug, a fierce, overwhelming hug with Danny and Allison wrapped around him, holding onto him like he might drift away—and then Lydia is joining, and Derek is surrounded by a warmth that is starting to be too much. They shouldn’t be happy to see him; they should be yelling and raging at him for what he did, should be hitting him, should be making him hurt for all the hurt he’s caused. But they aren’t, and Derek doesn’t know why, can’t understand why the three of them are soaking his borrowed t-shirt with tears.

He can’t understand, even as Stiles pulls them all away, off of Derek and he is left standing there, dumbstruck—watching as Allison collapses into Lydia’s arms, watches Lydia cradle Allison’s face in her hands and kiss the tears on her cheeks away; watches as Danny sinks down to the tiled floor and let’s his tears fall, wrapping his arms around himself, looking so damn _relieved_ that Derek feels the press of something at the back of his throat that tastes like bile.

This is so wrong; all of it. He feels the panic clawing at his throat, thinks that maybe it’s becoming too familiar, and he knows he has to get out of there, has to get away from this, all of this. He’s running then—or walking as fast as his still-weak body will move—out of the room, into the foyer. It’s getting harder for him to breathe, harder for him to let the air pass into his lungs. His head is starting to feel dizzy. He needs fresh air, needs to be outside where he can feel the wind on his face, feel the heat warm his chilled bones.

He’s reaching for the front door, twisting the handle, pulling it toward him—but then a hand snakes in from the corner of his vision and is pressing against the dark wood, slamming it shut in front of him. He feels another hand grip his shoulder before he is being jerkily, forcefully, turned around. His back hits the wood painfully and he sees a very pissed-off looking Stiles glaring at him, mouth set stern into a line and it does nothing to ebb Derek’s rising panic.

He opens his mouth—maybe in an attempt to suck in more air, maybe to try to say something—but then Stiles is seething into his face and leaning close, dark eyes blazing in the dimly lit hall. “No, don’t you fucking _dare_ walk out of here, do you hear me?” his voice is low, rough with anger and it bites at Derek. The hand Stiles has on Derek grips into the material of his shirt so hard that Stiles’ knuckles start to go white. “How could you even think about leaving them again, hmm?” He’s pulling Derek forward and pushing him back against the door hard enough that he feels like the wind is knocked out of him. “How could you even think about walking out after everything that happened?” He’s yelling now, the words ricocheting off the walls of the house, echoing in Derek’s head. “Everybody died and you were—what?—just hanging out God knows where while the rest of us tried to survive the absolute fucking _hell_ of losing every single person that mattered to us. What was so important that you couldn’t come back, that you couldn’t tell us you were _alive_?” He’s screaming the words now. “You were gone for a year, you fucking bastard!”

Derek doesn’t expect it; doesn’t even really register the fist coming at his face until it is colliding with the cut of his cheekbone, snapping his head to the side with a blinding pain that feels like Derek’s head is being severed from the impact and he is collapsing to the floor. The hit was meant to hurt someone who had werewolf strength on their side, but it was agony to Derek’s human flesh. He could feel the skin on his cheek split; feel the blood start to dribble out of the jagged line. He’s looking up at Stiles from the floor, watches as he kneels down near Derek, watches as his fist clenches again, as he rears up and slams it violently against Derek’s face, making the bruised and bleeding skin cry out in pain at the abuse.

“Stiles!” he faintly hears what sounds like Allison shout from the kitchen, but he can’t be sure. Everything is starting to go fuzzy around the edges—sounding and looking blurred and unfocused—and Derek isn’t sure what’s real anymore. He closes his eyes and feels another punch connect, this time with his jaw, splitting his lip, and it makes his head start to spin.

“Stiles!” It sounds like Danny this time and Derek opens his eyes to see Danny and Lydia pulling a raging Stiles away, trying to restrain the man like he’s a rabid animal. He looks livid, face red, knuckles bruised and a bit bloodied.

He’s struggling in their grip and manages to break free of their restraining hands with a growl that echoes through the foyer. They are reaching for him once more like they are afraid he’ll attack Derek again—and Derek wouldn’t blame him if he did, wouldn’t blame him if he did more than throw a few punches, even if it did feel like Stiles had broken something vital. But he wouldn’t blame him, _couldn’t_ blame him. Derek deserved this, deserved so much worse than this.

Instead of lunging at Derek though, Stiles just looks down at him for a moment, breathing hard into the silent hall before he turns his back on all of them and walks into the kitchen, leaving Derek splayed and bleeding on the hardwood. It isn’t long before the pain becomes too much and Derek is giving into it, letting the darkness take him under.

~

He comes-to slowly; drifting out of the darkness gradually, incrementally, until the light is pressing against his still-closed eyelids. He’s aware that he’s no longer lying on the floor. There is something soft under his back that feels faintly like a bed and he thinks there is a blanket over him. He’s grateful for the blanket, even in the soft summer heat, he’s still cold, still shivering a little. It seems like without the heat of his wolf now, he runs cold, colder than he’s ever felt in his entire life. It isn’t the only thing that will be different from now on. The wolf gave him so much, shaped who he defined himself as. But now, he is no one. Now, he is just the shell of something he used to be.

Slowly, he starts to hear the buzz of voices, like a humming in his ears that’s getting louder and louder until he realizes that there are people in the room with him, talking. He hears the low rumble of words, but can’t pick out what they are saying, can’t seem to make sense of the jumbled mess of sounds filtering through his ears. He tries to listen harder, tries to concentrate on recognizing the sounds. He knows there is more than one voice; one low and soft, the other slightly higher, sharper. He can’t make out anything, can’t tell who the voices belong to.

He can’t make out any words until a new voice speaks, and all at once, he can hear it, understand it and he knows that it is Stiles. “But why isn’t he healing?” Stiles’ voice sounds like it might be edging on hysteria, but Derek can’t really tell for sure, “it’s been twelve hours and it looks worse than before! Deaton, what’s wrong with him?”

Of course, of course they called Deaton; of course he is one of the voices Derek heard before. “I told you before, Stiles, nothing is _wrong_ with him.” Derek feels the press of something ice-cold on his cheek and he flinches away from it, opening his eyes in a snap, only to see Deaton hovering above him with an icepack in his outstretched hand, “Nice of you to finally join us Mr. Hale.”

“Derek!” he looks over to see Lydia standing on the opposite side of the bed. “Thank God you woke up.” She bites her lip for a moment before she reaches out to grasp his hand, holding onto it like a lifeline, “we were so worried.” He just looks at her, watches as her green eyes start to fill with tears again. Derek doesn’t want her to cry though, would do anything not to be the cause of more tears, so he gives her hand a small squeeze. The smile she gives him is blinding.

From the corner of his eye, he sees Stiles near the foot of the bed. He watches him take a step back and cross his arms over his chest before he mumbles something into them. Derek’s eyebrows pull together and he frowns but it pulls at the scab that is starting on his lip. He hates this; hates not being able to hear what Stiles says, not being able to tell what he’s feeling by the scents of his emotions.

Deaton is giving Derek a long look and then he’s turning to Stiles. “I’m afraid you may have to speak up from now on, Stiles. Derek’s hearing isn’t what it used to be.”

Stiles uncrosses his arms and stalks around to the side of the bed. He looks angry, “What the fuck does that even mean? Is he deaf or something?” but then he’s shaking his head, “No, that doesn’t explain why he isn’t healing.” He’s giving Deaton an intense look. “Someone better tell me what is going on or I swear to fucking God. Why isn’t Derek healing? Why was he gone for a fucking _year_?”

Deaton sighs and turns away from Stiles to look at Derek again. The look on his face is disapproving to say the least. “Derek,” he’s chiding him like a child, “You haven’t told them?” He shakes his head and clucks his tongue before he’s speaking again. “Are you still not talking either?” Derek looks away from him then, looks at where Lydia is still holding his hand, looks at the worn quilt that is covering his body, picks at a loose thread with his free hand.

He hears Deaton sigh. “I’ll take that as a no. Lovely.” He’s turning back to Stiles. “I don’t know if I can tell you everything, but I can tell you what I know.” Derek isn’t looking, but he can tell by the way Lydia’s hand loosens its grip on his own that she is focusing all of her attention on Deaton, just like he’s sure Stiles is doing. “It was after you came to me, Stiles, and told me about the powder and how the wolves had ushered everyone out of the house when they saw how it affected Derek and the others. I’d never heard of a paralytic form of wolf’s bane that caused devastation to that extent before, so I was curious and perhaps a little intrigued. I came here, to the house, to see if I could somehow find out exactly what it was.”

He stops for a moment and places a steady hand on Derek’s shoulder. “I discovered that Derek was in fact still alive, barely, still lying on the couch, covered in the blue powder. I checked on the others, but there was no sign of life. Derek’s pulse was weak and I knew he wouldn’t last long by himself. I took him back to the clinic and washed the wolf’s bane from his skin. Derek didn’t wake up and it was a few days before I noticed that something was off. Instead of getting better, he seemed to be getting worse; much, much worse. Eventually, I discovered that he had aconite poisoning. No matter what I did, no matter what remedies I gave to him, it didn’t get better. His body seemed to be going into shock because of the illness and he slipped into a coma. It was nothing I’d ever seen a werewolf do before and I was puzzled. As a last resort, I tried what one would do to a human in that situation. I found the machines Melissa had taken from the hospital for emergencies and I hooked Derek up to them. I gave him antibiotic medicine to try to wipe out the aconite from his system. Imagine my surprise when it started to work.”

The room is silent for a moment before Stiles huffs out a breath and speaks, “I—I don’t understand. What does that mean?”

“It means,” Deaton says, taking his hand off Derek’s shoulder, “that Derek reacted like a human would. Soon the sickness was gone, but he was still in a coma. I reached out then, to some acquaintances I have in similar situations to packs across the country. I never told them that Derek was still alive, but I asked them questions. They all told me the same thing, told me how a virus had swept through their packs and killed everyone but the alpha.” He sighs out a heavy breath, “It wasn’t long after before I received the calls about the hunters coming to finish the job, killing the alphas. More calls about alphas dying from diseases they shouldn’t’ve been able to get, should have been immune to, like aconite poisoning. Wolf’s bane kills werewolves, yes, but aconite poisoning is a strictly human phenomenon. It should not have been possible for Derek to get it; shouldn’t have been possible for him to be in a coma, either, but he was.

“I researched then, contacting every person I could think of that still had an alpha in their midst, but the numbers were dwindling by the day. Eventually, about six months after the virus was released, one of my colleagues made a discovery. He found that the wolf in his alpha was gone. Not just gone—erased, burned out by the killing virus.”

Lydia’s hand slips from Derek’s then and he closes his eyes, willing down the rising emotions churning inside of him. How could he face these people now that they know what a failure he is? Now that he is just a shell of someone, empty inside of everything that defined him before.

“It was a couple of months later that we found out all of our phones had been tapped by the hunters. They had been tracking our communication for months, using us to track down all of the other remaining alphas.” Derek opens his eyes and looks at Deaton then, shock draining the color from his face. Deaton isn’t looking at Derek, isn’t looking at anyone. He looks sad, ashamed, and Derek wants nothing more than to say it isn’t his fault, he couldn’t have known what the hunters were doing, but instead, Deaton continues. “I tried as hard as I could to keep the fact that Derek was still alive under wraps. I didn’t trust anyone knowing. I didn’t trust you.” He looks up at Stiles and Lydia then, “for that I’m sorry. Truly. But I’ve spend my entire life being trained to protect the Hales to the best of my abilities, and Derek is the only one left. I couldn’t let anything more happen to him. You have to understand.” He takes a shaky breath and looks at Derek. He looks like he’s looking for some sort of confirmation that he did the right thing—that it was what he had to do, and Derek nods at him, lifting the un-abused corner of his lips just a little bit.

The older man relaxes a little at that. “Derek didn’t wake up for a month after that. By that time it had been close to a year, and I thought telling you all after so long would just make things worse. Words can’t describe how sorry I am for letting you all think that everyone had died. Maybe I should have told you. I thought about it about a month ago, after he woke up, but then he was so weak from his long immobilization, from the virus and the coma and I was still trying to keep him safe; to keep all of you safe.

“I thought—I thought when he disappeared that the hunters had somehow found out that he was alive and had taken him. Days went by and I looked everywhere for him, but to no avail. It wasn’t even until you called that I knew he was still alive.” He looks to Derek and his eyes are dark and intensely sad, “Why did you leave Derek? You weren’t a burden to me, you must know that.” He reaches out and places one of his hands atop Derek’s, leaning closer. “What happened wasn’t your fault.” He’s whispering the words and Derek can feel the sting of tears in his eyes and the thought of _yes it was_ races through his mind.

“So you see, Stiles, Derek wasn’t gone for a year of his own volition.” Deaton stands up, “He almost died and it took his human body nearly a year to recover enough for him to surface from the coma. He isn’t healing because he can’t, at least not at the speed he used to. He’s healing human slow, because he’s human now. And I’m afraid that it’s rather overwhelming for him, to be cut off from everything he’s ever known. I know the first couple of weeks after he woke up were rough for him. He had to not only readjust to all of his senses, but also relearn how to control his emotions—a feat I feel he’s still struggling with, sadly.”

“So that’s why he tried to run,” Lydia says from where she is still perched by the side of the bed. She looks at Derek and she looks so sympathetic that Derek’s heart starts to hurt.

“You were having a panic attack,” Stiles says, his voice a low rumble that cuts through the hurt surfacing inside of him. Derek looks from Lydia to Stiles and sees that he’s looking at him, looking at him like maybe he’s seeing him for the first time and Derek swallows hard. “I—I thought you were just playing, just trying to use it as an excuse for me to let you leave. I had no idea—Derek, I—” He’s walking closer then, lifting his hand out like he wants to touch Derek, but then his hand drops and he stops.

Deaton clears his throat and it seems loud in the room. “I’m sorry to say I have to leave now, but I hope I’ve cleared some things up.” He starts walking toward the door, but turns back with his hand on the knob. “Just remember, Derek is the sole survivor.” Deaton is looking at Stiles now. “If anyone finds out he is still alive, the hunters will come here and they will try to finish their mission of exterminating every last werewolf from the world. Derek is still recovering, still weak. There is no way he could defend himself if hunters arrive. He would be the easiest kind of prey.” It sounds like a warning to Derek’s human ears, but there is something else mixed in with it, some kind of trust laced within the words. He’s looking at Stiles expectantly.

Stiles eyes go dark and then he is turning away from Derek toward Deaton. “I won’t let anything happen to him,” Stiles promises, mouth set in a hard line.

Deaton nods at him and walks out of the room, closing the door behind him.

The room is silent for a while; too silent, too still. Lydia is the first to break the quiet. She sits down on the edge of the bed and grabs one of Derek’s hands. She gives him a small grin, “So, you’re human now, huh? Have to admit I did _not_ see that coming. I guess I should’ve though.” She shrugs and leans forward, “if there’s one thing Peter taught me it’s to always expect the unexpected.” She presses a light kiss to his un-bruised cheek, “I’m glad you’re here, Derek.” She gives him a watery smile and then she is standing up and leaving the room, leaving only himself and Stiles.

Stiles is looking at him, his eyes tracing over Derek’s features and Derek is looking back at him just as intently. Stiles walks back to the side of the bed and Derek shifts a little when Stiles grabs the discarded icepack and sits on the very edge of the bed. He doesn’t say anything for a while, just sits and stares at the icepack in his hands, but then he is sighing, “Your face is starting to swell a little.” He presses the icepack to Derek’s cheek and Derek flinches a little at the initial cold, but then it is soothing away the ache and he closes his eyes at the acute relief that’s kneading at his sore skin.

Stiles reaches out and cradles Derek’s opposite cheek in the palm that isn’t holding the icepack. He’s leaning down until his face is close to Derek’s. Derek blinks up at his dark eyes, at his slightly parted lips, watches as Stiles licks his lips and speaks, “I’m so sorry, Derek” the words are a whispered hush that makes Derek shiver a little at the intensity. He’s so close that Derek can feel his body heat sink into his still-cold skin. “I didn’t know. I should’ve asked instead of jumping to conclusions.” He traces his thumb over Derek’s cheek and Derek moves in to the touch. “I’m sorry I hurt you.” He murmurs.

Derek looks at him for a long moment, looks into Stiles’ fiery dark eyes, and then he is placing his hand over Stiles’ on his cheek and rubbing his thumb over the other man’s knuckles. Stiles smiles at him, the first real smile Derek has seen on his face since he came back and Stiles lowers his head to rest in the crook of Derek’s neck. “I missed you, y’know,” he mumbles into the material of Derek’s shirt. “I missed you so much.” Derek gives his hand another small squeeze before he moves his free hand to run his fingers through Stiles hair.

It occurs to Derek briefly that he’s never felt so content, never felt so relaxed without the wolf a constant thrum of energy under his skin—but then he is closing his eyes and drifting off to sleep, lethargic and warm from Stiles’ body heat.

~

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You know the drill. Any and all comments and/or criticisms are accepted and appreciated.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Derek learns about the last year of Stiles' life.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Un beta'd, so all of the mistakes are mine (and there might actually be some, because I wrote this all in one sitting, so you are warned).

Derek wakes up the next morning to a cold bed. He isn’t really surprised by, but has a fleeting moment where he wished Stiles was still there—but the thought is so odd that he pushes it away before he can examine it too closely. He rolls out of bed and sees the stack of clean clothes on top of the dresser. He grabs some of them—a navy sweat suit—before he heads to the hallway, finding a bathroom easy enough. When he steps out of the shower, he feels more alive than he’s felt in a long time, the warm water easing his sore muscles, relaxing his tense limbs. It’s amazing what being clean can do to improve his mentality. He dresses in sweats before he heads down the stairs, hearing the clattering of life below, the low buzz of the TV.

He heads into the living room and sees Allison sitting on the couch with Lydia lying with her head in her lap. Allison’s hand is stroking over Lydia’s hair and they are looking at each other with an intensity that makes Derek feel like he is looking in on something too personal—like he is a voyeur—and it almost makes him consider walking out of the room, leaving them alone, but then Allison looks up from Lydia’s upturned face and sees him. A blinding smile breaks across her face and she is waving him over, her face lighting up and her eyes sparkling with happiness.

“Hey, Derek! You’re finally awake! How are you feeling?” After a beat of silence she seems to think better of her question, and waves it away, as if she knows that he won’t answer. He shouldn’t really be surprised. He’s sure Lydia has told Allison everything Deaton told her and Stiles yesterday.  “Never mind.” She gives a small laugh, “your face looks better.”

Lydia twists her head until she can see Derek. Her sharp green eyes narrow and she purses her lips, “Well, don’t just stand there. Come sit down.” She sits up and scoots closer to Allison, patting the section of the couch cushion on her opposite side.

Derek obliges, if only because both of them are looking at him like they’re secretly afraid he might try to run away again. He sinks onto the cushion with a sigh and turns to them, giving the two of them a small smile. They both smile back at him and it makes something inside of Derek ease. He settles more comfortably on the couch; it’s a smooth black leather that seems to cradle him.

“So,” Allison starts, turning and throwing an arm over the back of the couch, “In case you’re wondering, Stiles and Danny aren’t here. They had some work to do, but they’ll be back a little later. I actually had some work to do too, but I wanted to see you before I left,” She’s looking at him and she looks startlingly vulnerable, young, with her dark hair and eyes and porcelain skin. She bites her lip for a second before she’s shaking her head a little, “I still can’t believe it. I mean, Lydia filled me in on…” she makes a sweeping motion with her hand, “everything, but it doesn’t seem real.” Her voice is soft, “Just—just, if you need anything, we’re here, Derek. Okay? We’re here.” She’s looking at him with an intensity that makes his throat constrict a little and he wants to say something—anything—but he can’t. He nods at her anyway, to let her know that he knows.

And he does know. He knows that they’re here—they’re still here. He knows that these people, these few people, are all that he has left, all that are left of his life. It’s selfish, but he’s grateful. So grateful that he isn’t alone, even if he would be better off alone, even if everyone else would be better off without him. But he needs them, needs what’s left of his pack surrounding him. He needs their kindness and their comfort like he needs air. And he’ll take it. He’ll take everything they have to offer, even though he doesn’t deserve it. Because Derek is nothing if not selfish; he always has been. Losing his wolf hasn’t changed that.

Allison stands up then and steps in front of Derek, wrapping her arms around his shoulders. She doesn’t say anything, just clings to him for a few long moments and he clings back to her just as tightly, just as needy, until she gives a small chuckle and pulls away. She ruffles his hair affectionately before she is leaning down to kiss Lydia on the lips, whispering a quiet, “goodbye” at her, then another salutation at both of them and then she is leaving the house and shutting the front door behind her.

Derek looks over to see Lydia still looking over to the archway where Allison just disappeared into, as if she can still see her walking outside, walking toward wherever she is heading. Her lips are pulled into a soft grin and her eyes look a little dazed, but she looks happy—so fucking happy. Derek wonders at that, wonders when that developed. He nudges Lydia’s shoulder with his own and she turns to look at him, cheeks reddening a little, before she ducks her head onto his shoulder.

Derek huffs a little, but then he is lifting his arm to wrap it around her shoulders and he’s pulling Lydia against his chest, as much as to just be close to someone as out of affection for this new, different side of Lydia Martin that he’s never seen before. They sit like that for a while, alone with the sounds of the big empty house, just the two of them.

Eventually, Lydia speaks, voice quiet and a little unsure. “I know you probably think its weird, Allison and I. I mean, I don’t even really know how it happened. It was just, after everyone—well, it happened.” Her voice is getting a little bit more certain. “It happened and I’m happy.” She turns to look at Derek then, green eyes looking in to his own. She reaches out and grabs his hand that isn’t around her shoulders and laces their fingers together. The sigh she lets out is a heavy one, full of such a mix of emotions that Derek can’t even begin to try to decipher them. “After everything—with the virus—things changed. So many things changed, for all of us. Suddenly we all had to adjust to losing people that meant the world to us. I guess—I guess in a way, me and Allison and Danny got off easy.”

She looks away from Derek, dropping her eyes to their joined hands. “I mean Danny and me, we lost Jackson, but he’d been gone from our daily lives for over a year. Danny lost his best friend, yeah, but they’d already been sort of drifting apart ever since Jackson moved. And Jackson and I—well, I might’ve still loved him, but I wasn’t still _in_ love with him. I mean the rest of the pack, they were my friends, don’t get me wrong; I loved them and it hurt to lose them—but I still had my best friends. I still had Allison. I still had Danny. You used to make jokes about how the pack humans were like a clique, and yeah, we were. The three of us were closer to each other than we were to the rest of the pack, except for maybe Allison and Scott.” She rubs her thumb across Derek’s knuckles in a distracted motion, like she isn’t even aware of the small touch she is making. “I don’t—I don’t want you to misunderstand me. I loved the pack.” She looks up at him. “I loved every single one of them. Okay, maybe not Peter, but still,” she’s rolling her eyes and it makes the corner of Derek’s mouth twitch. “They mattered to me; all of them, and I miss them every day. But what I’m trying to say is that, no matter how bad it was for us, it could’ve been worse; for me, for Allison, for Danny.

“But Stiles,” she says, her eyes filling with tears, fingers gripping tighter on Derek’s hand until his half-smile falls and his eyebrows draw together, “Stiles wasn’t so lucky. He was hit the hardest. It wasn’t—it wasn’t just his best friend he lost that day. You know how close he got to Isaac and Boyd after Erica—” she clears her throat, “the four of them were a group, were always together. God, they were like brothers. When Stiles lost them…when he lost _you_...” she drifts off, but the picture she paints is one that Derek doesn’t particularly want to see; doesn’t want to examine too closely. He knows Stiles, knows that he had to have reacted badly—really badly—in order for him to have changed so much in so little time. It had only been a year, but it seemed like a lifetime. Derek can see that something in him must’ve broken; he can see that Stiles is still suffering from the blow of so much loss and tragedy.

It’s a look Derek knows well; too well. He knows Stiles, or at least, he knew Stiles then. He knew the Stiles that would’ve been there to try to pick up the pieces after everyone was gone. He could only imagine what it must’ve been like for him, how hard it must’ve been. Because Lydia is right; the other humans, they did flock together. Maybe it was because they were more comfortable with each other, more comfortable with people they could relate to. And that was okay, had always been ok. They weren’t wolves; they didn’t have the same instincts that the rest of the pack had. But Stiles—he was different, had been different since Scott had been bitten. He proved himself again and again, proved that he wasn’t just a part of the pack; he ran with the wolves, was more comfortable with the wolves. Stiles understood them all in a way that most humans didn’t—not even Allison, who had only ever understood Scott. He knew Stiles then, knew the kid that felt so much guilt at inadvertently getting his best friend bitten by a werewolf—guilt at ruining his life—that he did anything and everything he could to help, to make up for it in some way, even if he was _just_ a human.

Derek can only imagine what Stiles was like after he lost everyone. He probably felt guilty, felt like there should’ve been something he could’ve done, even though there wasn’t anything any of them could’ve done. He would’ve blamed himself. And knowing that kills something inside of Derek. If it was anyone’s fault, Derek knows, it would be his own. He should’ve expected it, should’ve realized that the hunters wouldn’t just let him go, not after his pack killed off the alpha pack and showed just how strong, just how dangerous, they have proved themselves to be. He should’ve seen an attack coming, shouldn’t’ve let his guard down, not even for a second and especially not on a day that was supposed to be a celebration. No, Derek is the only one to blame. Not Stiles; never Stiles.

“He’s different now,” She says the words quietly. “He’s…harder, fiercer. Colder.” She lets out a long sigh. “Look, Derek, you have to understand. Stiles isn’t the same person anymore. I mean, he won’t even let us in anymore.” She sounds so broken admitting that that it makes Derek draw her back into the circle of his arms. Lydia sniffles a little, “It’s like he thinks that if he doesn’t let anyone in that he can’t be hurt by losing them. I just—I just don’t understand it. I want to hate him for it, for pulling away from the rest of us when all we have is each other. But I can’t, because I still love him. But I want to hate him.” She is crying in earnest now, soaking the cotton collar of his sweatshirt.

All Derek can do is rub soothing circles over her back as she weeps against him.

~

Derek doesn’t see Stiles at all that day. Danny comes home and brings dinner with him. The three of them eat Chinese take-out and watch TV for a while before exhaustion wins out over comfort and he heads back to the guest room that Lydia told him is his designated room, at least for the foreseeable future. Derek crawls under the covers and falls asleep, pulling the blanket snuggly around him and wishing for a fleeting moment that Stiles was there to share his body heat again.

The next morning brings with it a loud slam of a door and bright light from the window flooding Derek’s face as the curtains are pulled back. He can barely make out the silhouette of Stiles through the bright haze of light flooding the room and blinding Derek’s sleep-sensitive eyes. Stiles walks over to Derek’s bed and pulls the blanket off of him. Derek shivers at the loss of heat and glares up at Stiles.

“Rise and shine!” Stiles is saying, too loudly and too early if the angry red numbers of the alarm clock are any indication to Derek. “We have a busy day ahead of us.” He stands there expectantly and Derek has no idea why Stiles is in his room, waking him up so early. “Well. C’mon. Up and at ’em.”

Derek just grabs a spare pillow and covers his face with it, hoping it will help to block out the light streaming in through the window that is causing his eyes agony.

He hears Stiles huff out a sigh. “Derek, I’m serious. If you aren’t downstairs in five minutes, you’re going to wish you never came back here.” He levels that threat and then Derek hears the door slam once more and he knows that he is alone in the room. Derek removes the pillow from his face and sighs, sitting up before heading downstairs.

Stiles is in the kitchen, perched on a bar stool. He looks up at Derek when he walks in before his hand extends and he is handing Derek a glass full of something that looks faintly like a smoothie of some sort. “Drink this before we start,” is all he says.

Derek lifts an eyebrow but takes the glass from him nonetheless, drinking it down slowly. When Derek finishes, Stiles seems satisfied and nods at him. “Okay, first things first. Follow me.” Stiles is walking out of the room with a demanding air and Derek can do nothing but follow him, unsure as to where they are going or what Stiles is up to. He follows him downstairs and sees that they’ve finished the basement and made the closest corner of the large space into an honest-to-god gym, complete with a variety of machines and weights. There’s even a punching bag hanging from the rafters. Derek is impressed.

Stiles walks over to the machines and turns back toward Derek. Derek can tell that Stiles must’ve been using these machines for a while now, can tell by the bulk of the muscles on his body that he never used to have. “Okay, so here’s the deal. I’m going to get you back in shape—because, really, you’re starting to look a little pathetic, dude.” He’s looking Derek up and down and Derek knows that he is seeing everything—seeing the weak limbs and the shrinking muscles. “I mean, when I punched you, you didn’t even _try_ to fight back.” He gives Derek a dark look and it makes him duck his head in something akin to embarrassment. “I mean what the fuck?” Stiles shakes his head a little. “That’s just…so wrong. On so many levels.” He turns away and walks over to the treadmill, turning it on. He motions for Derek to come over and Derek steps on the machine.

“Okay. I should warn you, I’m not going to go easy on you just because you’ve recently been in a coma.” He twists his face. “Why does that sound so much like déjà vu?” he waves his own question away. “Whatever. We’re starting now.”

Stiles didn’t lie when he said he wasn’t going to go easy on him. Stiles works him for close to two hours, on every machine—multiple times. He works Derek through the circuit again and again, until every single muscle in his body is straining and quivering and aching and he can barely move. He’s covered in sweat; the sweatpants and t-shirt he has on are soaked through. Stiles only has a light sheen of sweat on his forehead and Derek wants to hate him for that, but for as much as Stiles made Derek work, Stiles’ own workout put Derek’s to shame.

When Derek can barely move, Stiles finally relents and lets him be done. “Fine. If that’s all you can take, just go sit over there and let me finish up.” He goes back to violently assaulting the punching bag and Derek can’t help but admire the way his arms move, the way the taut muscles of his shoulders bunch when he throws punch after punch. Derek might or might not spend more than a few seconds watching the material of his blue t-shirt darken with sweat at the base of Stiles’ spine.

Derek shakes his head and turns away. He walks toward the opposite side of the basement, where there is a table and chairs set up against the wall. He’s about to sit down when he looks down the hallway that leads to the back part of the basement and sees a room with an open door. Stiles’ back is still to Derek, so he heads down the hallway, moving as quietly as he can. He’s surprised by the few other closed doors he passes before he makes it to the open one. He steps into the room and sees nothing at first, just the blank white wall in front of him, but then he turns and sees it; the weapons safe.

It’s huge; massive. It takes up the entire side wall, black and gleaming severely against the white wall. He remembers Scott telling him something about the weapons safe that the Argents used to have in their garage, but thinks that this one must be bigger. He walks up to it slowly, sees the countless guns and bullets locked inside, but he also sees the more unconventional weapons, like knives and arrows and—a flamethrower. There is a fucking flamethrower locked in the basement of the house that his family burned to death in and Derek doesn’t understand why, can’t understand why.

Suddenly he’s having trouble breathing; knows he’s starting to have a panic attack, but he can’t turn it off, can’t stop his heart from flipping over in his chest and beating so hard and loud that he feels the cadence in his head, in his fingertips, and he can’t breathe past it. He’s stepping back, trying to make it out of the room, away from the overwhelming memories and emotions, but then he steps back into a wall of hard muscles and arms are snaking around him, holding him steady as he tries to jerk away, but loses his balance.

Strong hands are holding him, “Derek. Hey. You’re okay,” Stiles is whispering the words against his ear in a soothing lilt. He turns Derek around until they are facing each other and Stiles puts a hand on the back of Derek’s neck. His eyes are slightly wide, but he’s leaning closer, pulling Derek’s head into the space between his neck and shoulder. “Shh. It’s okay. You’re fine. Just breathe for me, okay? Just close your eyes and breathe with me.” Derek does as Stiles says, closing his eyes fiercely, blocking out everything but the way Stiles says “in” and “out” and the rise and fall of his shoulder against Derek’s forehead. Derek follows his words, follows the motion of Stiles body, mirrors it, and he feels the knot in his chest lessen, feels his throat open and he starts to breathe easier—soothed by the hands rubbing slow circles across his shoulders.

When Derek feels himself regain some semblance of control, he pulls away from Stiles, feeling mortified for falling apart, for having a panic attack, for needing someone—for needing Stiles—to help him through it. He hates his weakness, hates that he needs other people, that he needs someone else at all, when he never used to need anyone. But he’s grateful.

Stiles lets him pull away, lets his arms fall from Derek’s back and Derek is glad. Stiles sighs into the room and leans back against the wall. “What was that about?” He asks the question quietly, like he doesn’t really expect an answer, but he needs to get the words out. Derek looks up at him and sees him watching him closely. Derek swallows and nods his head toward the weapons safe. Stiles’ eyes follow the motion and all at once, he seems to understand. He raises an eyebrow and his lips part. “Oh,” is all he says, but then he is letting out an un-amused laugh that sounds more like a bark. “I—uh, I guess no one told you yesterday then?” he asks, running a hand through his slightly sweat-damped hair and mussing it before he looks back to Derek. “They didn’t tell you what all of us do for a living?”

It’s a rhetorical question. Obviously no one told Derek anything; otherwise he wouldn’t have reacted so badly to why there are so many kinds of weapons locked in the basement of the house. Stiles must know this by the look Derek gives him. “Right,” he says, “so. A lot has changed within the last year.” He walks past Derek to stand in front of the weapons case. “Long story short, about six months ago, Chris Argent became aware of the fact that it was hunters that released the virus. I don’t know how he found out. He never told any of us, not even Allison,” Stiles face twists and he reaches out toward the cool black metal, “but after that, he retired. I mean, he fully and completely retired. Not just from hunting, but from his day job of selling firearms to law enforcement. He wanted Allison to take over the company, but she was still picking up the pieces of her life, trying to get over Scott, had just started her relationship with Lydia—well, she didn’t want the job, didn’t want to have to be the leader of Argent Arms International at barely 20.” He turns around and leans back against the safe, crossing his arms over his chest. “I didn’t have the same…reservations as her. So, I talked to Chris, told him I was interested in taking over the company.

“I just thought, ‘why not’?” Stiles shrugs, “I mean all of us had given up on going to college. We’d been living here for a few months by then and all working whatever kind of part-time job we could hold down and just sort of coasting. Luckily—or, unluckily—we could afford to go on living however we wanted, because we were the heirs to everything that used to belong to the pack.” Stiles tilts his head and gives Derek a pointed look. “Maybe it was a good idea for you to have everyone in the pack make wills a few years ago after all. They came in handy after everyone had died. Or, sorry” he motions to Derek, “almost everyone. You see, Peter left everything to you. Scott split things up between me and Allison and his mother. Boyd didn’t have a lot, but what he had he left to you. Isaac left everything to Scott, but—well—y’know. Jackson—surprisingly, actually—made Lydia the sole heir to everything, including the settlement that had only just matured from his parents’ death. And you—well,” Stiles is just giving him an odd look, “I guess that doesn’t matter anymore, does it?

“The point is that pretty much everything ultimately got left to Me, Lydia, or Allison. But of course, we couldn’t just leave Danny alone, so he came with us when the house ended up falling into our hands. At first, we were just going to sell it, but then I found all the blueprints you hid under the kitchen cupboards and I knew that you would’ve wanted it to be finished.” He looks away from Derek and the air in the room starts to go a little heavy, “it only seemed right, to finish it for you. The rest of the guys agreed. And I mean we had the money, so we started rebuilding almost immediately after everything was settled with the lawyers and we were all the official owners of the property.” Stiles shakes his head, breaking the weight that had started to settle around him. “So when a few months passed and the opportunity to be CEO of Argent Arms came around, I thought it would be good; not just for me, but for all of us. It had been half a year. We needed something to help us move forward, y’know. We needed something else to focus on. It seemed like a good cover for us, just like it had been for Chris. So, I bought the company from Chris. He retired and moved back to somewhere in the San Francisco area with a few other hunters that retired around the same time. Apparently there were quite a few hunters who followed the code that were outraged by the virus.” Stiles waves his hand, “but anyway, I digress. After I bought the company, I changed the name to Stilinski Standard Global, hired Danny and Allison and Lydia as my seconds, and we’ve been spearheading the company ever since.” Stiles smiles at Derek and Derek takes a few steps back toward him and the weapons safe, “We’re actually becoming one of the most recognized arms companies in the Northwest US area, which is pretty cool. We don’t just strictly sell to law enforcement, either, so we’re slowly becoming the go-to for a number of organizations; got our hands in a lot of pies.”

Stiles steps toward Derek then and holds his hands out toward the case, as if presenting all of it to Derek, “So. Weapons. We sell them. But, as I’m sure you noticed, it isn’t strictly firearms. We’re sort of a...free-for-all company.” Stiles is nodding, “yeah. We have a little bit of everything. Stilinski Standard Global has a reputation in the world of weapons for our extensive collection. We have our specializations, of course; arms, arrows, blades, and chemicals. I deal the firearms, Allison is in charge of the bows and arrows, Danny deals the knives, and Lydia is queen of chemical weapons. It may not be the perfect setup, but it works for us.”

All Derek can do is nod, a little lost, as he takes all of this information in. He would’ve never pictured any of them working for a weapons company, let along owning and operating one. Derek takes a couple steps closer to the giant display and just tries to take it all in. He knows, intellectually, that the weapons are all in safe hands, but he can’t seem to come to terms with the fact that he’s only ever seen hunters with some of these weapons, that there are so many bad memories attached to the variety of instruments locked inside of the safe. He lets out a deep sigh and feels Stiles’ hand on his shoulder. The touch eases the uneasy thoughts and he turns to face Stiles.

Stiles is looking at him with another odd look on his face, as if he’s looking for Derek’s approval, looking for his okay, just like he used to when Derek was the alpha. But Derek isn’t the alpha anymore, isn’t anything at all. Stiles doesn’t need his approval, doesn’t need anything from Derek anymore. But the hand on his shoulder squeezes gently and Stiles is speaking once more. “C’mon,” he motions toward the door, “let’s go upstairs so you can shower.” Stiles wrinkles his nose and grins, “You’re starting to smell.”

Derek shoves at Stiles’ shoulder before he walks out of the room, but he’s still grinning by the time they make it back upstairs.

~

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I just want to say thank you to anyone that is reading this. Seriously. It means a lot to me that you'd even give this story the time of day.
> 
> As always, any and all comments and/or criticisms are accepted and appreciated. Seriously, I would love any and all feedback!


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The anniversary.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Un beta'd, so all of the mistakes are mine.

The next couple of weeks pass in a blur. Derek has a routine now, though. He wakes up early—too early, really—to work out with Stiles for however long Stiles commands of him, before they both shower. Danny joins them sometimes for their workout sessions, but always has breakfast waiting for them after they’ve gotten dressed. The three of them eat together every morning and then Stiles leaves for work. Danny leaves a little later, once either Allison or Lydia has woken up and come downstairs. Derek quickly caught on that the plan was for someone else to always be around him during the day. He wants to complain, wants to say it isn’t necessary, but he’s actually enjoying spending time with all of them. It’s nice; the domesticity of it all. It’s slowly making Derek feel like he is starting to belong, like maybe he isn’t so much of an outsider anymore, like maybe he isn’t so much of a burden to all of them.

So, yeah, the last few weeks have been surprisingly nice, surprisingly easy. He spends a lot of time with Danny and Allison and Lydia. In fact, he spends most of his time with them. He only sees Stiles first thing in the mornings, never sees him in the afternoons. Stiles spends most of his time at the office building they bought, or at their weapons warehouse. Derek sometimes finds himself missing Stiles in the afternoons, but then he is always around one of the other three and it makes up for his absence in some small way. He may not talk to them, but they talk to him, about anything, everything—and Derek listens, takes in every word.

Danny tells him about the company, about how it’s been almost like a godsend; giving them all something to focus on that isn’t the ever-present loss they all feel. He tells Derek about how he learned all about the blades, about how he found out he has a knack for knives, how he learned to throw them. He tells Derek about how they all felt the need to learn how to better protect themselves after they were left alone. And then after Stiles bought the company, there were endless amounts of weapons to choose from and learn to use. So they each picked one as their specialty, researched until they knew all there was to know, so that they could know exactly what their buyers were talking about, know exactly what they needed. It was as much just learning for the sake of knowledge as learning to not look like young, naive fools that were spearheading a massive weapons company. Danny told Derek about the trouble they had at first with some of the law enforcement divisions not wanting to buy weapons from a group of young adults. But Stiles worked at all of them, tested them on their knowledge until they knew enough, until Stiles was satisfied that they could sell the products.

He tells Derek about how Stiles doesn’t spend a lot of time at the house, how he’s gone most of the time, flying out all over the west coast to meet with buyers. Most people are interested in firearms, and Stiles is their resident expert, so he is on demand during meetings. But Danny doesn’t like it, doesn’t like that he always insists on going alone. He tells Derek how much Stiles has changed. He tells him with a face that is so sad, with a voice that is broken. He tells him how the rest of them can’t stand being alone, not really, not after losing so many people; how Danny secretly feels the need to always look at the others, to see them and check on them and make sure that they are still _there_. But Stiles doesn’t seem to see that, doesn’t understand the weird co-dependency he and Allison and Lydia have.

Stiles is a loner now. He never stays in the same place for more than a few hours. Danny thinks it might be due to some lingering ADHD, but he mainly thinks it’s just Stiles’ need to be unattached. He tells Derek about how Stiles barely even sees his father anymore. He tells him how he watches Stiles’ face, sees how much it hurts him when his father calls and Stiles makes up an excuse not to see him, how his face looks when he thinks no one is looking.

Derek has noticed that look too. He’s noticed the way Stiles always gets this far away look on his face when they are working out. Sometimes he’ll be on a machine and just stop, seemingly unaware that he was doing something and then he’ll just freeze for so long that Derek considers making a loud noise to break him of his spell, but then he seems to come back, all at once and pick up where he was before. Stiles pretends it doesn’t happen and Derek lets him, not wanting to ruin their still tentative routine, not wanting to do anything to push Stiles. Because for as much as Derek is now integrated into the lives of Danny, Allison, and Lydia—slowly working his way into the fabric of the home they’ve built, into the new life they’ve created for themselves—he still doesn’t know where he stands with Stiles.

Danny does tell him one other thing though; he tells Derek how, since he came back, this is the most time Stiles has spent at the house, the longest stretch he’s spent home between business trips since they bought the company. Derek doesn’t know what to make of that and a part of him feels like his coming back here has interrupted Stiles life and he resents that he did that to him, that he’s making things harder for Stiles, making him mess up his routine.

But it’s something he’s slowly getting used to. He’s used to waking up and seeing Stiles almost first thing when he makes his way into the basement. He’s used to breakfast with him and Danny. He’s used to not seeing him again until the next morning. It’s easy. It’s habitual.

So to say it surprises Derek when Stiles comes home from work early one night is an understatement. If it surprises him, it’s nothing less than shocking to Lydia and Allison, who are sitting in the living room with Derek while Danny is out picking up some food.

Allison stands up like a bullet, “Stiles! What are you doing home?” Her voice sounds a little hesitant, like it normally does when she talks to him, as if she’s afraid of saying the wrong thing to him and upsetting him or making him just turn around and leave.

Stiles walks into the room shrugging, “I’ve got an early flight tomorrow. Going to San Diego for the next couple days.” He says it nonchalantly, like it doesn’t matter, like he doesn’t realize what tomorrow is.

But he has to know; he has to. Even Derek remembers. How could he not? The date is ingrained in his memory, searing into his brain. It will be there forever, a silent, deadly reminder of everything he lost that day; of everything all of them lost.

Tomorrow is the anniversary of the release of the virus—the day the pack died; the day they lost everyone that used to matter.

Derek sits up straighter at Stiles’ words. He glances over at Allison and sees her face go pale, sees her shoulders fall, “But—why?—I mean, tomorrow is…Stiles, you can’t go tomorrow.” Allison is almost begging, the plea in her words so strong that Lydia slips her hand into Allison’s from where she is still sitting on the couch and gives her hand a squeeze.

Stiles stills at that, his shoulders tensing as he gives Allison a dark look, his mouth thinning into a hard line, “Oh really, Allison?” He asks; the words low and just dangerous enough to make the hairs on the back of Derek’s neck stand up. “When did you become the boss of me? You aren’t my fucking mother,” and just like that Allison starts to shake, tears threatening to run from her eyes.

“Stiles—I-I didn’t mean—” She starts, her voice low, a little scared, and then she is crying. In that moment Derek hates Stiles a little for making Allison cry, for taking away her smile.

Lydia is standing up then and wrapping her arms around Allison, holding her to her smaller frame while Allison tries to stop the flood of tears. Lydia is shooting Stiles the most menacing glare she can. “Screw you, Stilinski.” There is venom in her voice as she lowers Allison onto the couch and then turns back to face Stiles. “You have no right to treat people like this. No one died and made you fucking king.”

Stiles is taking a step toward her then and Derek is standing up, feeling the tension in the air as Stiles steps right in front of Lydia, glowering down at her, “Actually, yeah. They did. Everybody died, _Lydia_ ,” he says her name and it drips contempt, “everyone died and you guys put me in charge, remember? Hmm?” he’s stepping closer to her, until they are all but chest to chest. “You guys were so broken you couldn’t even function. _I_ was the one that had to make all of the funeral arrangements. _I_ was the one that had to meet with the lawyers and settle everything while you all spent your days in a fog. It was _me_ who took charge and you let me. So don’t you fucking _dare_ throw that back in my face now, not after everything I did for you.” He spits out the last and the words cut Lydia and Allison like knives, making them even paler, hitting them like a slap in the face.

Lydia’s bottom lip is quivering and she isn’t looking Stiles in the eyes anymore. “Stiles—”

“No,” he cuts her off with a shake of her head. “I’m leaving in the morning and I don’t give a damn what you say. We have a business to run. We can’t put everything on hold just to sit around and wallow in old memories and heartache. Well, I can’t. You guys can do whatever the fuck you want to do, but I won’t be here.” With those final words, he is turning and walking out of the room.

Derek considers following him for a fleeting moment, the anger in his body so hot he can almost taste it, but then Lydia is collapsing onto the couch and letting out loud sobs that twist Derek’s gut and make him unbearably sad. So instead he walks over to hug the girls that are crying on the sofa.

~

Derek wakes up the next morning, early. It’s still dark, in the cold hours well before dawn, but Derek throws off the covers anyway, shivering through the slight chill in the room as he pulls on clothes before he leaves his room. He heads down the hallway to where he knows Stiles’ room is. He knows where all of their rooms are, but Stiles’ is the only one he hasn’t been to yet.

It’s a room Derek hasn’t wanted to see, hasn’t wanted to go near, really. He wonders if Stiles knows that his room used to be Derek’s—that it was his bedroom a million years ago—in another life. He thinks that Stiles can’t’ve known what room it used to be. They fixed the house up solely based on Derek’s blueprints and they said nothing about what room used to be what or anything like that.

Derek walks down the hallway and gets to Stiles door. He can hear him moving around inside; can hear the muted shuffling of feet and the zip of a suitcase before he knocks on the wooden door, a few quiet raps as to not wake the rest of the sleeping housemates. There’s silence from inside for a few long moments and Derek thinks that maybe Stiles will ignore him, but then the door is opening and the hallway is being flooded with light from the room.

Stiles looks surprised to see him, and he should be—Derek doesn’t make a habit of visiting his room at four AM. “Derek, what—” he clears his throat and looks at Derek for a long moment before he sighs and opens the door wider so Derek can come in. Derek takes a hesitant step forward. “I’m leaving soon for the airport.” Stiles is turning away from him and heading to his bed to remove the suitcase from it. Stiles is wearing black slacks and a black dress shirt. He looks severe and professional; a look that makes him seem so much older than nineteen. He grabs the suitcase and heads out of the room, flipping off the light and motioning for Derek to follow him down the stairs. Once they are downstairs, Stiles sets his suitcase down by the front door before he heads to the kitchen.

He expects him to say something, but Stiles just walks silently around the room, putting on a pot of coffee, before he leans back against the counter and tries not to look at Derek, looks anywhere but at him, actually. It makes Derek angry, makes him so fucking angry. He’s leaving. He’s leaving all of them, on today of all days, and he can’t even say anything. Derek doesn’t expect excuses, because he knows Stiles won’t give him any, won’t give any of them any. But he thinks, maybe on some level, Stiles will feel bad, just a little, about leaving them. That maybe he can break out of his cold shell for once and just realize that his leaving was hurting the people around him. Maybe he didn’t care if he hurt Derek, because Derek deserved to be hurt—but Danny, and Lydia, and Allison; they didn’t deserve it. Not at all.

Derek walks around the island until he is facing Stiles, leaning back against the marble countertop. He just looks at him, waiting.

Derek can tell when the silence becomes too much for him, when he finally moves—crosses his arms over his chest—and looks up at Derek with anger darkening his eyes. “What do you want, Derek? Are you here to silently demand that I not leave?” Stiles laughs, but there is no amusement in the sound, “What are you going to do to stop me, hmm?” Stiles shakes his head and sighs, running a hand through his hair in a nervous movement that Derek recognizes from before—from the Stiles he used to know.

Derek walks over, closes the distance between them and leans back against the counter next to him, pressing close, nudging his shoulder with his own. All at once, Stiles lets out a sigh and relaxes against Derek’s shoulder. He can feel the heat of Stiles’ body, where they are touching; shoulder, hip, thigh. He leans in just a little more, wanting to feel more of the warmth.

Derek turns his head to look at Stiles. His eyes are fluttering closed and he looks so pale in so much black clothing that Derek reaches out and places a hand on the back of his neck, rubbing circles into Stiles’ hairline with his thumb. Stiles leans in to the touch, pressing closer to Derek until their sides are flush against one another. Derek doesn’t expect it when Stiles speaks again, “Don’t you get it, Derek? I can’t be here, not today. They—they think that I don’t know. That I somehow can’t tell. But I do.” He sighs out a long breath, “they blame me; I know they blame me.” He’s whispering the words, saying them so quietly that Derek’s human ears have trouble picking them up.

“I-I see it sometimes, the way they look at me like they resent me, like I should’ve done something—anything—to stop it.” His voice is starting to sound thick, but his eyes are still tightly closed, not looking at anything, like as long as he can’t see then none of it is real. He’s shaking his head and it almost dislodges Derek’s hand on the back of his neck, but Derek just strokes his fingers through the hair by the nape of his neck. Stiles shudders a little, gasping in a broken breath, like maybe he went to long without breathing. “The worst part is that they’re right. I should’ve done something to stop it, but I didn’t—I couldn’t. It’s my fault they’re gone.”

Derek doesn’t expect the words; doesn’t expect the way they come out sounding so broken, so hopeless, so much like the Stiles that Derek used to know, the one that was always there for him, the one that made him feel like he was worth something, that he could be so much more than what people expected of him. This—this broken man next to him—is the Stiles from a year ago, so full of emotions that he is breaking under them, drowning in the depths of his own grief and guilt and it kills a part of Derek, to see him like this, to hear him like this. He knows now, what it was like for him, holding all of this inside, letting all of those heavy emotions harden into anger, into a rage so intense that it only lets the other emotions out fleetingly. He knows, because he sees himself there—sees the same guilt and rage and shame inside of himself.

Derek doesn’t want Stiles to feel like that, never wants him to feel the way he feels. Before he can even think about it, he’s pulling Stiles against him, using his newly-formed bulk to move him closer, wrapping his arms around Stiles’ waist and holding on, even as Stiles tenses against him. Derek just holds on, though, and feels the way Stiles slowly starts to relax against him, feels the way his breathing evens out, feels every rise and fall of his chest against Derek’s own. Derek puts his chin on Stiles’ shoulder and turns so his lips are by Stiles’ ear.

“No,” he says simply, quietly, breathes the word into Stiles’ ear. His voice is rough from disuse and sounds strange to his own ears, sounds almost too quiet and Derek wonders for a moment if Stiles heard him at all, but then Stiles is pushing on Derek’s shoulders and suddenly he sees his face filling up his vision.

Stiles’ eyes are wide, dark, uncertain as they look into Derek’s. He looks even paler now, if possible. His mouth is open and Derek thinks his bottom lip might be trembling just a little, but then he opens his mouth, “Wha-what did you just say?” The words are hesitant, soft, and he’s looking at Derek with an expression so open and vulnerable that Derek moves his hand and cups Stiles’ cheek.

“No,” he says again, a little louder this time. Stiles looks so confused, like he doesn’t understand what Derek is saying, like the word is foreign to him. “Not your fault.” The words come out a little broken, a little rough, but Stiles blinks at him for a long moment before his eyes flit away from Derek’s, but then Derek’s other hand is cradling his opposite cheek and he’s holding Stiles’ face in his hands. “Not your fault,” he says again and Stiles looks back at him. Derek notes the way his Adam’s apple bobs with a hard swallow.

Stiles licks his lips and Derek can’t help but track the motion. “Derek—”

But then the coffee pot is sounding that it’s done and Stiles pulls back from Derek so fast it’s like he’s been burned. They just stare at each other for a long moment before Stiles turns to go toward the coffee pot, but Derek reaches out, grabs his wrist, and Stiles is turning back to him with a questioning look on his face. “Don’t go,” is all Derek says.

Stiles looks away, but doesn’t break the physical contact. He’s looking around the room with eyes that are slightly unfocused, like he is looking for an answer in the cupboards. “I—Derek, I have to go. It’s my job. You can’t just expect me to blow clients off. It’s my responsibility. If I don’t do it, someone else will have to and it’s after four in the fucking morning. I can’t just call and wake someone up and tell them to get on a plane—”

Stiles is rambling—a nervous habit Derek hasn’t seen or heard him do in a year—so he cuts him off, “Yes. You can.”

Stiles gives him a long, searching look, before he lets out a huff. “That just seems like an abuse of power to me, and I am _not_ one of those bosses…”

Derek just gives him another look and pulls Stiles’ wrist until they are close enough for Derek to reach a hand out toward Stiles’ lower back. He snakes a hand down over the waist of Stiles’ pants, until his hand is just grazing over the ass of Stiles’ slacks, before Derek is reaching in to Stiles’ back pocket and retrieving the cell phone placed there. He hands it to Stiles and lifts an eyebrow at him before he lets go of Stiles completely and walks over to fill two mugs with black coffee.

Derek doesn’t miss the way Stiles is still standing there and looking at him for a long moment, before he flushes and looks at the cell phone in his hand. He heads out to the foyer to make the call. Derek can’t hear what is being said, but he can hear the soft cadence of Stiles’ voice and then the ‘you, my friend, are a life saver’ before he walks back into the room. Derek picks up both cups of coffee and walks over to the nook, setting them opposite each other on the table.

He sits down and picks up his coffee, sipping the hot liquid. Stiles walks over and joins him, taking a sip of his own coffee, before he sets it down and looks at Derek with a frown. “Why does it not really surprise me that the first word you say to me in a year is ‘no’?” Stiles shakes his head, but when he looks back at Derek, there is a grin tugging at his lips, “I guess some things don’t change that much after all.”

Derek grins back at him and shakes his head.

~

Eventually, Stiles goes up to change out of his dress clothes and then the two of them move into the living room to settle on the couch. They don’t talk about what happened earlier; don’t even really acknowledge that anything at all happened.

When Danny finally wakes up and makes his way down the stairs, hair all mussed from sleep, Derek and Stiles are watching Scott’s favorite movie—some stupid comedy that neither of them could really stand,  but they put it in anyway, if nothing but for old time’s sake, for fond memories, even if they were a little heavy. Danny almost falls over when he sees Stiles sitting there.

“Stiles—I thought you said you were leaving!” Danny doesn’t sound happy or upset; he just sounds confused, looks confused as he takes a step further into the room.

Stiles shifts a little—shifts a little closer to Derek, but doesn’t seem to notice he’s doing it—before he shrugs, “I changed my mind.” He doesn’t look at Derek, but Derek grins anyway.

“Oh,” Danny says. For a moment he just stands there, and then all at once a smile breaks out on his face and he says, “Oh!” and then is all but running toward the couch and plopping down next to Stiles before he wraps his arms around him in a hug that leaves Stiles looking stunned by its ferocity and has Derek holding back a laugh. “Stiles!” Danny is saying, “I’m so glad you’re staying!” He wraps his arms around Stiles’ waist and nuzzles his face into Stiles’ chest and it reminds Derek of a puppy.

Derek doesn’t even try to hold back the laughs that pour from his throat. He laughs until he starts to cry, and then it is like a dam breaks inside of him and he is crying in earnest, crying like he’s never felt before and it feels _so good_ to let it out—to just let out all of the anger and frustration and sadness and guilt that’s been building and burning inside of him for so long. He cries until he feels arms around him, and then he sees that Stiles is there, running hands up and down his sides and making shushing sounds into his neck. Danny is there too, with his arms around Derek’s shoulders, hugging him from behind

He hears shuffling on the stairs and then Allison and Lydia are in the room. They seem to take in the scene all at once, because then they are moving forward and coming over to the couch. Danny is crying into Derek’s back and Allison wraps her arms around him. Lydia’s arms go half around Danny and half around Derek.

Slowly the tears start to ebb, until they are all just leaning and holding onto one another like they never want to let go. It’s the most secure Derek’s felt in years. The TV is still playing Scott’s favorite movie and the sounds of fake laughter fill the room, but none of them seem to mind. They stay like that until the movie finishes and then they slowly start to untangle their limbs from each other, settling so Derek and Stiles and Lydia are sitting on the couch. Danny is on the floor and Allison is seated in Lydia’s lap.

Stiles is, surprisingly, the first one to speak, and when he does, he’s looking at his hands, twisting them in his lap. “I’m sorry,” he says quietly, “I know that doesn’t excuse how I acted, or even the fact that I was planning on leaving.” He sighs, “I’m sorry Lydia; Allison. Please don’t be angry with me; not today. Please. Be mad at me every day for the next year, but please not today.” He still isn’t looking at anyone, but Derek moves his hand and places it over where Stiles’ are twisting together for a moment and that seems to relax him a little bit.

“Oh, Stiles,” Allison whispers, “I could never hate you.” She scoots over from Lydia’s lap to Stiles’ and then wraps her arms around him, hugging him tight, “I love you.” Stiles wraps his arms around her and hugs her back and Derek can see more of the tension drain out of his body with her words.

When Allison pulls away, Lydia leans over and presses a kiss to his cheek, ruffling Stiles’ hair a little before she smiles at him. “I love you, too, you know. I’m still angry with you, though,” she says, narrowing her eyes at him, “but not today.” And then she is hugging him, briefly, before she pulls Allison back into her lap and Stiles lets out a laugh that has Derek shifting just a little closer to Stiles, wanting to lavish in the sound of it, because it’s been so long since he’s heard Stiles laugh.

“So,” Danny says from his spot on the floor, “should we watch "Hoosiers" next?”

~

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I was supposed to write a paper today, but I wrote this instead. Whoops! 
> 
> So, yeah. Any and all comments and/or criticisms are accepted and appreciated.
> 
> As always, thank you so much for reading!


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Beta'd by B!

“We’re going for a run,” Stiles says to Derek one morning a few days later, before they have a chance to head to the basement for their usual routine. Derek looks over at Stiles and sees him slipping on his running shoes. He wants to question, wants to ask why they are going outside when they have a perfectly nice treadmill downstairs if Stiles feels the need to go for a run. But he doesn’t say anything, just follows suit and puts on his own shoes before he follows Stiles outside into the summer heat.

He’s glad he opted for basketball shorts and a t-shirt today rather than his normal sweat suit. He follows Stiles on a path into the woods. They head to the preserve, working themselves into a steady rhythm that is just this side of too fast for Derek, but Stiles is running like he’s not even affected by the pace. They make it to the preserve and the path widens, allowing Derek to move up to run beside Stiles.

The fresh air feels like heaven to Derek. He opens his mouth and takes deep breaths of the warm, summer air, letting it fill his lungs and clear his head. They follow the winding path through the trees, the early morning sunlight flickering through the leaves in spotty patches that warms Derek’s skin for moments at a time before the heat is eclipsed by a shadow.

It takes longer than it should for Derek to realize that this is his first time outside since he first went back to the house. It makes a knot start in his chest, pulling at something inside of him that he can’t even begin to untangle. He knows, theoretically, that he should be safe outside, should be able to walk—or run—around and not fear for his life. He knows it is irrational and bordering on paranoia to constantly think that something bad is going to happen, but his whole life, he’s been conditioned to expect danger. It’s hard to break himself of the mindset, hard to reconcile that things are so much different now. He’s human. He doesn’t have to be scared of the danger lurking in the darkness anymore; doesn’t have to be scared of hunters or alpha packs or countless other enemies coming out of the woodwork. The thought does nothing to soothe the uncomfortable feeling in his stomach, though.

Derek shakes the thoughts away, focusing instead on the steady rhythm of the run, the motion of putting one foot in front of the other, of the burn that is starting in the muscles of his legs, in the sweat that is starting to trickle from his forehead and down his spine, in the way his breathing is growing harsh. It’s a good distraction—the run. It makes him feel more alive than he’s felt in a year; reminds him that he’s still alive in a way that working out on machines in the basement of the house can’t do.

He’s always liked to be out in nature, always liked to look at the trees and the sky and the landscapes and just revel in all of the beauty that nature has to offer. It’s always been something that settles him. He always used to assume it was just settling for his wolf, but even now, he feels the effect it holds on him, feels his body start to relax, little by little, feels the stress start to roll away with every step.

It’s a while before Stiles starts to slow down next to Derek, a while before he notices that Stiles isn’t next to him any longer. Derek turns back and sees him walking toward a clearing, toward the boulder that lies on the overhang of the cliff and looks out over the town. Derek doesn’t even know when they got this far out, all the way to the outer edge of the preserve, but here they are. Derek steps off the path, following Stiles to the clearing.

It’s flooded with sunlight, the cloudless sky allowing the sun to beat down on them. Stiles walks over to the rock and sits down, looking out over the town with his back to Derek. Derek doesn’t say anything, just watches Stiles before he looks at the valley below. It looks the same as it did a year ago, he knows, but somehow, it seems so different. It seems like another world. It shouldn’t be possible for everything to look the same when everything else in his life is so different now. It makes him feel off kilter.

“It’s weird, right,” Stiles starts, “how everything’s still the same.”

Derek looks at him and sees him turned back to face him. He can see the sweat dripping from his hair line. He doesn’t trust himself to speak, so he just nods instead, not wanting to voice just how weird it makes him feel to see the city again.

Stiles sighs and stands up, moving to the opposite side of the clearing. “Man, it’s hot out here. Summer finally decided to start, I guess,” he says and then before Derek can say anything, he is stripping off his t-shirt and using it to dab at the sweat on his forehead. Derek watches him walk toward the cliff, watches the way the muscles in his back and shoulders bunch and flex, watches the way the drops of sweat slither down his spine to pool at the small of his back.

He’s staring. He’s aware he’s staring, but he can’t make himself look away, can’t seem to do anything other than just _watch_ Stiles move. But then Stiles is sitting down again, on the ground. He looks back over his shoulder at Derek and motions him closer, patting the empty earth next to him for Derek to sit down. Derek walks over slowly, swallowing hard before he sits Indian style next to him.

Stiles isn’t looking at him; he’s looking at the shirt bunched up in his hands. “So, you remember that trip to San Diego I was supposed to go on?” Derek nods even though Stiles isn’t looking at him, “Well, I guess the buyer didn’t want to work with the person that ended up going, so I have to fly out in a few days.”

Derek tenses at his words and has to force himself to relax. This is Stiles’ job; this is what he does. It’s inevitable that he has to leave. Derek knows that Stiles can’t always be there for him, even if he wishes he could. He has a job, has a life that doesn’t include him, and that’s okay. Derek is okay with that. But the thought of Stiles leaving still manages to make something twist inside of him.

“I don’t—” Stiles sighs again and looks up from where he is wringing his shirt in his hands to look at Derek. “Come with me.” He says, looking at Derek from mere inches away, his face flushed with heat, his dark eyes framed by wet eyelashes that are clinging together. Derek watches a drop of sweat snake over Stiles’ collarbone before his eyes flick back to Stiles’. Stiles looks away from Derek and places a hand on his thigh, “Please,” he says, voice low and just a little needy. Derek can feel the warmth of Stiles’ hand through the thin material of his shorts. All at once, it’s too much. There’s too much heat, too much warmth and Derek can’t think straight. He can feel himself start to flush, feel the heat pool low in his body and then he’s reaching out to put a hand on the back of Stiles’ neck.

Stiles’ eyes drift back up to Derek’s and he looks at him like he isn’t sure what’s going through Derek’s head. He looks uncertain, but his hand is still warm on Derek’s thigh. Derek strokes his thumb over the top of Stiles’ spine and lowers his forehead to Stiles’ shoulder. “Okay,” he says and can feel Stiles sag a little against him in relief.

“Really? You’ll go with me?” The words sound a little breathy. He leans in a little closer to Derek, moving his hand so it is wrapped around Derek’s back, settling low on his hip. His other hand reaches out to find Derek’s chin and move his face from where it’s buried in his shoulder. There is a small grin on his lips and Derek finds himself watching it, watching the way his lips part just a little. He can feel the warm puffs of breath on his face when he nods against Stiles’ hand. He smiles in earnest and moves his hand so it is cradling Derek’s cheek. He feels a thumb trace over his cheek and flicks his eyes up to Stiles, only to see that he is looking at Derek’s mouth. Derek swallows hard and looks away when Stiles’ tongue peeks out to wet his lips.

Derek moves his hand up from the nape of Stiles’ neck to settle in his slightly damp hair, before he is moving forward, using his hand on Stiles’ hair to move him closer, until their lips meet and press together in a way that is warm and solid and soft and _real_. Derek is the first to move, the first to open his lips and tilt his head and move his tongue gently against the seam of Stiles’ mouth until it opens for him, until their mouths are moving together and their tongues are meeting. Their hands are moving then, pressing, holding, touching tentatively, as if the kiss were a house of cards and one wrong touch could make it fall apart around them.

Stiles deepens the kiss, his lips firm and hot, his tongue sweeping wetly into Derek’s mouth in a way that makes him feel a little breathless, a little boneless, and floods his body with a heat that rivals the sunlight still beating down on them. Derek feels Stiles grab a fistful of his t-shirt and use it to pull him closer, to twist Derek’s body until their chests are pressing together—skin to cotton. His hands are roaming up and down Derek’s back, snaking under the material of his shirt to press against hot, damp skin and it makes him shiver, makes him moan just a little into Stiles’ mouth, makes him press his body more securely against his, it makes him wind his fingers deeper into Stiles’ hair and bring him ever closer. The kiss goes from a slow meeting of lips to a battle of tongue and teeth all at once and in a way that makes Derek feel like he’ll never be able to take a full breath ever again.

It’s overwhelming, intense, heady; and over with the sound of a twig snapping nearby.

The sound shocks both of them out of the kiss and has Stiles tearing himself away from Derek so fast that Derek is left holding nothing but empty air. Stiles is standing up and grabbing his t-shirt from the ground where it lay forgotten before he walks to the far end of the clearing back toward the path. “Who’s there?” he yells into the woods, looking around frantically for a few minutes.

Derek stands up on semi-shaky legs before he walks over to join Stiles by the path that leads back into the preserve. Stiles looks a little pale, even under the angry glare of the sun; his hair is disheveled and his lips are red and swollen. It makes Derek wonder about his own appearance, but then Stiles is running a desperate hand through his hair and turning back toward him. He looks at Derek for a long moment before he blushes and looks away. “It’s getting late. We should be getting back.”

Derek walks closer to him and reaches out to lace their fingers together. “Okay,” he says before they turn back toward the path and walk back to the house.

~

Stiles showers and leaves almost as soon as they get back to the house, but he doesn’t go without pressing a quick kiss to Derek’s lips. Derek is glad Allison is the only one home and that she’s upstairs doing work, because Derek knows there’s a goofy smile plastered on his face for a good hour after Stiles leaves. It’s still there even after he’s showered and the morning has turned into afternoon.

Stiles and Danny come home together, carrying bags into the living room. Danny sets them down by Derek and turns to him. “So, I heard you’re taking a trip?” Derek catches the grin he throws at Stiles, “I figured you might need some actual clothes. Y’know, instead of those awful sweats from the back of Stiles’ closet that you’ve been living in. So, we went to the storage locker where we put all of your stuff and picked up some of your clothes.” He reaches in a bag and pulls out a pair of dark jeans. “These should still fit you okay. They may not be as skin-tight as they used to be, but I think you’ll survive.” Danny shoots a meaningful look at Derek and he flushes a little, feeling slightly embarrassed for some reason over the state of how his pants may or may not fit.

“I, uh,” Stiles starts, reaching into another bag, “I thought you might like this,” he pulls out a black leather jacket and holds it up for Derek to take. Derek knows that jacket, knows it like a second skin. He reaches out to take it tentatively and his fingers brush against Stiles’ before he grabs the jacket and lifts it to his nose. It still smells the same, even after all this time. It soothes something inside of him and he smiles a little down at it before he looks back up to see Stiles watching him with a small grin. He ducks his head but sees the grin on Danny’s face from the corner of his eye.

“Well, pick out something to wear, Derek, and then I’ll take the rest of this stuff into your room for you, okay?” Danny asks and Derek nods at him, digging through the bags until he finds a navy shirt to go with his pair of dark jeans. Danny grabs the bags and heads upstairs.

“So,” Stiles closes the distance between them, “you should get dressed.” He motions to the clothes in Derek’s hands and then walks over to lean against the couch.

Derek heads to the bathroom and changes into his clothes, noting the way that the shirt and pants are both a little loose on his frame, but that he’s gained back a lot of the muscle he lost from being in the coma. In his own clothes, he’s starting to look like his old self, like the Derek Hale he used to be. He feels less like his own shadow now.

He walks back into the living room and finds Stiles standing there waiting for him, holding his leather jacket. He looks nervous all of the sudden and Derek doesn’t know why. He sets the jacket on the arm of the couch and turns to face Derek. “What I asked you earlier,” he mumbles into the room, “are you actually okay with it? I mean, I know legally you’re still considered dead, but the company has a private jet, so we wouldn’t have to worry about airport security. And, I mean, no one in San Diego will know you, so you won’t have to keep, y’know, hiding out or whatever. I just—I want you to be okay with this,” Stiles sighs and looks away from him.

Derek walks until he is standing in front of him, “I am,” he whispers, reaching out to cup Stiles’ face. Stiles turns his face into the touch and all but nuzzles against Derek’s palm. It surprises a huff of laughter out of him and Stiles shoots a lopsided grin at him.

Stiles settles his hands on Derek’s hips and moves him closer into the space between his legs where Derek is standing. He’s still grinning when he kisses the corner of Derek’s lips. “Good,” he whispers against his lips before he presses a soft kiss to Derek’s lips, but it lingers just enough that Derek steals another before he settles his forehead into the crook of Stiles’ neck. Derek’s hands move up Stiles’ sides and snake around to settle on his back, pulling Stiles more firmly against his body. Stiles thumbs strokes under the hem of his shirt, at the bit of skin just above the waist of his pants and Derek sighs against his neck, before he takes a deep breath.

“You smell the same,” he mumbles into Stiles’ skin.

Stiles shifts a little so he can look down at Derek, who rolls his head so his cheek is resting on Stiles’ shoulder. He moves a hand to weave his fingers through Derek’s hair. “Yeah?” he smiles a little and ruffles his hair, “what do I smell like?”

Derek closes his eyes and inhales against Stiles’ skin. “Like you.”

He can feel the laugh erupt from Stiles’ mouth before he hears it, “Well, that’s very…descriptive. Thanks”

Derek moves his head and levels his eyes with Stiles’. “You’re welcome,” he murmurs as he leans forward to capture Stiles’ lips again. The kiss this time is slow and easy, even as Stiles wraps his arms around Derek’s neck and Derek holds him just a little closer.

Stiles lips are soft and sweet and feel so good against his own that he thinks he could be happy just kissing Stiles like this for the rest of his life. It’s a thought that should be scary, that should make him feel uncomfortable, or like he doesn’t deserve Stiles—because he doesn’t—but he’s selfish, and he needs Stiles so badly that he’d do just about anything to keep him. That should be scary, too, but it isn’t.

Stiles tightens his grip on Derek’s hair and Derek groans against Stiles’ mouth, drawing his bottom lip into his mouth to suck at it until Stiles lets out a moan of his own.

They hear a knock at the door and pause for a moment but then Danny is yelling that he’ll get it and Stiles moves back to Derek’s mouth and nibbles at his bottom lip before he sucks on Derek’s tongue and tugs at his hair. Derek retaliates by lifting Stiles up so he is sitting on the back of the couch and moving further into the space between his legs even as Stiles places his legs around Derek’s hips to pull him closer.

“Where the hell is my son? No, don’t tell me he’s not here, I can see his car. I’m not stupid, Daniel. Where is he?” Derek hears the barrage of angry words and the stomping sound of footsteps treading closer to the room, but he’s too late pulling away from Stiles, too entangled with him to separate their limbs smoothly, and then the sheriff is walking in to the room. He stops dead in the threshold.

Stiles is slow to react, but all at once, he pushes Derek away and all but hops from the back of the couch to walk around and face his father, “Dad!” he says, only sounding slightly hysterical as he runs a hand through his hair in what Derek knows is a sign of nervousness, “what are you doing here?”

But the sheriff just stands there and looks at his son like he’s never seen him before. Derek is aware of Danny standing just behind the older man and grinning at him, dimples flashing. The sheriff looks at Derek and goes pale. He looks a little like he’s just seen a ghost.

And then all at once, Derek understands. No one told the sheriff he wasn’t dead. He looks over at Stiles but Stiles purposefully avoids eye contact. “Okay, Dad, you need to breathe. C’mon, breathe.” Stiles says, taking tentative steps forward until he sees the sheriff’s chest rise and fall in a few jerky movements.

Once he catches his breath, the words start to flow all at once, “What the hell is going on? Isn’t that—but he’s dead. Isn’t he? I thought—I thought they all died. Stiles, I swear to god if you don’t tell me what’s going on… And were you kissing him?” his face is red by the end and he’s looking accusingly at his son.

Stiles sighs, “Okay, I can tell you everything, but why are you here, Dad? You never come out here. Did something happen?”

The sheriff sighs and all at once the anger drains out of him and he collapses into one of the recliners. He puts his face in his hands and sighs loudly into the room.

“Dad?” Stiles steps around and kneels down in front of the chair. “What is it? What happened?”

“It’s Alan Deaton.” He heaves another sigh and gives Stiles a sad look. “His body was found out at the preserve a few hours ago.”

                Stiles rockets from where he is kneeling on the floor and is in front of Derek before he can really even register the movement. They share a look that sends shivers down Derek’s spine that not even the setting sun could chase away.

~

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow, I am so sorry for the delay on this chapter! I've been super busy with school and work and schoolwork. Good new is I'm on spring break for a week. Bad news is I'm actually doing things on my spring break so I can't guarantee speedy updates (or any at all, truth be told) this coming week. So please don't be too disappointed in me if I don't post a speedy update.
> 
> As always, any and all comments and/or criticisms are accepted and appreciated!


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Un beta'd so all of the mistakes are mine.
> 
> Also, I know next to nothing about guns, so sorry if this isn't factual.

The next few days pass in a blur of what Derek knows is a massive investigation headed by the Beacon Country Sheriff’s Station. They spent days combing the preserve, looking, hoping, for any clue into the homicide of Alan Deaton, but Derek also knows that they have found nearly nothing. At least, that’s what the sheriff says when he stops by the house to pick Stiles, Danny, Allison, and Lydia up for the funeral. They are all wearing black—severe black suits or dresses—with unsmiling faces as they walk out of the house, leaving Derek behind. He can’t go, he knows. He’s still technically a dead man, so he can’t go to the funeral, can’t say his last goodbye to the man that was essentially his last link with his family, with both families and packs that he’s lost. It isn’t fair, but Derek understands the need for him to be more careful, especially now, in light of what little evidence the police did find and what it means.

The autopsy showed that he died from a gunshot wound. The bullet, though, was laced with traces of paralytic and poisonous herbs. The most notable of which was wolfs bane. Derek knows, knew even before the sheriff told them about the evidence, that it was hunters. He knew it from the first. He knows, also, that the hunters must’ve been in the woods around the same time that he was out there on his run with Stiles. The realization makes his blood run cold, makes his palms start to sweat when he thinks about it.

Derek has a sinking suspicion—something he really doesn’t like to think about, doesn’t even like when the thought flits across his mind—that Deaton was out there for a reason—maybe to warn him, maybe to protect him—but he knows that Deaton died for him. He was killed by hunters for Derek, in Derek’s place. He was out there watching out for him, protecting him to the last, just like he promised Derek’s mother he would do all those years ago.

He should’ve been able to go to the funeral, to say whatever silent thank you he could manage to Deaton, for saving his life, yet again, for always being there whether he knows it or not, whether he wants the offered help or not. He should’ve thanked him while he was alive, should’ve thanked him for hiding him while he was in the coma, for taking care of him and protecting him from everything. But he couldn’t, couldn’t even give Deaton a last thank you, couldn’t say goodbye, couldn’t tell him everything that he deserved to hear.

This was just one more thing that was his fault; one more death on his hands; one more person in his life gone because of him. Derek is poison. He’s the worst kind of bad, the worst kind of villain, because he doesn’t mean it, doesn’t mean to get the people around him hurt, but it happens all the same. And he hates himself for it, wishes not for the first or the second or the third time that it would just be him, that he could finally be the one to die and be taken from this misery; from the guilt and the sadness and the anger and the shame that hangs around his neck like a noose, slowly tightening, taking away his air, cutting off his will to live, choking the life out of him until he is nothing but a gasping mess, collapsed on the bathroom floor. He’s shaking, shuddering, trying to drag air into his lungs, but the movements are hollow and his mouth won’t open, his teeth won’t separate. His chest starts to burn—his eyes, his throat—his fingers are shaking, even as they clutch at the dark denim covering his knees, brings his forehead down to it.

It’s his fault. It should’ve been him. He knows that if he were dead, everyone else would be safe. He wouldn’t have to worry, wouldn’t have this constant knot in his chest, afraid for everyone and everything and knowing that he can do nothing to protect anyone; not anymore, not ever again. He can’t save the people that matter; he never really could, even when he was an alpha, even when he lost everyone the first time and made a promise to protect Laura. But he failed at that, lost her, broke the promise he made to himself and started to care about more people, people that would’ve been safe without him in their lives.

So many lives lost; so many people that matter gone. Derek ruins everything he touches, sucks the life from the people around him, burns out their fires until they are nothing but memories, fleeting thoughts and lingering sadness that never goes away, until it all turns black and fades into a swirling muddle of numbness that settles in every crevice of Derek’s body, until it infiltrates his mind, seeps into his bloodstream and his bones, until he stops shaking, until the burning inside of him subsides and he sits on the cold tile, knowing absolutely nothing, feeling absolutely nothing. Until the world wilts away into something without an outline, something undefined and uncontained.

Maybe for the first time, he finds some semblance of clarity. He knows, somewhere in the back of his mind, what needs to be done and how he ne needs to do it.

~

It’s only after the rest of them have been back from the funeral for a while that Derek seeks Stiles out. He finds him in his room, knocks quietly on the door before Stiles opens it. He changed out of his suit and into jeans with a maroon v-neck t-shirt. Derek barely looks at him, doesn’t even wait for Stiles to open his mouth to say anything, before he’s speaking. “I want to learn to shoot.”

Stiles stares at him for a long beat, before he blinks and nods curtly, turning away to allow Derek further into the room, “We can go tonight if you want? The warehouse has a weapons range attached to it. I…closed the place down for today. It’s empty.”

Derek is leaning awkwardly against the doorframe and Stiles is looking at him in a way that is a little too calculating, but Derek simply nods back.

Stiles sighs. “Good. Great. Just give me a few minutes, yeah?” Stiles doesn’t wait for a reply before he is turning his back to Derek and Derek leaves the room, pulling the door closed behind him.

He walks downstairs, careful to avoid the looks Danny throws him from the table in the kitchen, careful to avoid the questioning that he knows he’ll see on his face. He grabs a bottle of water before he leaves, going to the living room, but Lydia and Allison are there, sitting on the couch, still in their black dresses. They look up at him and Allison makes a motion to stand, but Derek turns his back and leaves the room.

He almost feels bad for the way he’s been acting for the last few days. The sadness and confusion on their faces is almost enough for Derek to want to tell them that it’s him, always him, but he doesn’t. He hasn’t spoken to Stiles since they found out about Deaton, not until just now. He hasn’t let anyone touch him, hasn’t let anyone talk to him. He spent most of the last couple days in his room, only coming out to work out, eat, or when he hears the sheriff’s cruiser pull into the drive so he can get information.

He knows it isn’t fair, not to Danny and Lydia and Allison, not after everything they’ve been through, after everything they’ve done for him. They deserve better than this, deserve to be treated well, not blamed and blown off for things that aren’t their fault. But Derek isn’t that nice; he’s selfish and callous, and he knows that pushing them away now will be so much easier than having them ripped away later. He tells himself that he’s doing this for them, to protect them all from himself. Because people that care about him only end up dead. And Derek, he couldn’t imagine losing anyone else; not Allison, not Danny, not Lydia.

Especially not Stiles. He feels the worst about how he’s been treating him. He knows it’s wrong, knows that Stiles is getting fed up, getting tired of being ignored and blown off, but Derek has to do it, has to sever the ties now, before something happens, before it’s too late. Something else will happen, he knows it. Something will happen, and he can’t stand the thought of Stiles getting caught in the crossfire the way that Deaton had. He can’t—refuses to—face the thought of Stiles dying; dying for him, in his place, when it was always supposed to be Derek, all along.

He sees the hurt in his eyes, on the few occasions they’ve been in the same room. He sees the way Stiles opens his mouth, but then Derek always turns away or leaves before he can hear it, before Stiles’ outstretched hand makes contact with his shoulder. He sees how Stiles’ expression has been more and more stony, more stoic and shut down, and how he looks at Derek less and less. It’s only been a few days, but things are different now. Derek has changed it. Maybe it’s unfair, maybe Derek shouldn’t be able to make these kinds of decisions, but he does nonetheless, electing to do what he thinks is right, doing what he can to protect the only people he still has in what meager way he can.

He hopes one day, they can understand it, that one day they’ll stop hating him, stop resenting what he’s doing to all of them. But he knows that day isn’t today.

Stiles comes down the stairs a little while later, not even speaking to Derek before he goes down to the basement. He comes back up with a couple different cases in his hands. He pushes them into Derek’s hands before he walks out the front door. Derek follows him without a word, climbing into Stiles’ passenger seat, settling the cases on his lap. He can smell a faint trace of oil from the black cases. Gun oil. It’s a scent he hasn’t smelled as a human, and it seems sweeter somehow, lighter. But it still clings to the inside of his nostrils all the same, like a warning, like something permanent that he’ll never be able to get out.

The drive is short, but Derek is grateful for the tinted windows all the same. He can’t say that he’s completely comfortable being out of the house again, not in the light of the fact that there are potential hunters hanging around the town, but he needs to do this. Stiles pulls up to a massive warehouse on the outskirts of town and opens a garage door dock before he drives straight inside.

The size of the warehouse is impressive; it’s a multistory building that resembles a factory more so than a storage facility, but Derek knows that’s just semantics. On one side, there are rows and rows of cardboard boxes stacked on big, metal shelves. On the other side, there are countless weapons cases, just like the one they have in the basement, all pushed against the south wall of the building. The loft holds even more boxes. Derek’s pretty sure that most of it is ammunition or gun parts, or something else that isn’t dangerous by itself.

He only has a few seconds to take it all in though, before Stiles is walking toward a door on the opposite side of the warehouse. Derek follows him, cases in hand, until Stiles opens the door for Derek and leads him into a weapons range. It’s a substantial addition to the warehouse. Derek can see the different ranges—for bows, guns, knives, and a special glass area that Derek is sure is reserved for explosives—before they head straight to the gun range.

Stiles goes over to a shelf and grabs two pairs of earmuffs and two pairs of safety glasses before he turns back to Derek, handing him one of each. He takes both cases from by Derek’s feet and opens one, taking out a handgun from one and a couple magazines from the other. He motions Derek over in front of one of the targets.

“This gun is the number one standard for law enforcement in the US. It’s a little less easy to handle, has recoil that you’ll need to practice and get used to, but it makes up for it with its reliability.” He stops talking and walks toward the red line on the ground about thirty feet from the targets. “Stand here,” he says curtly and Derek does as he says. Stiles goes through the motions of checking the unloaded gun before he turns back to Derek. “Okay, so you want to make sure that when you hold it, you place the webbing of your hand right in this little dent and put your index finger straight when you aren’t shooting. Never put your finger near the trigger unless you are about to shoot, is that clear?” He waits a little for Derek’s sharp nod, before his jaw tightens and he moves closer to Derek passing the gun to him, careful to keep the barrel away from them. He grabs Derek’s hand and stiffly wraps his fingers around the base of the gun. “Get used to how it feels in your hand. Go ahead,” Stiles says, removing his hand from on top of Derek’s.

Derek mulls over the feel of the gun in his hand. It’s heavier than it looks, but almost feels softer than he expects. He gives the base a few experimental squeezes before he raises it up and extends his arms. “Okay,” Stiles starts, “so the next thing is to cup your other hand over that one, but to be careful to avoid the trigger.” Derek does as he says, “Okay. Now make sure the rear and front sights line up. When you shoot, the front sight should be in focus and the rear sight and target should be out of focus.” Stiles sighs when Derek turns to give him a look. “That might not make sense, but try it; you’ll see what I mean.”

Derek does. He raises the gun and looks over the top of the gun until the sights are lined up. “Okay, so now, I’m going to but the magazine in.” He reaches out for the gun in Derek’s hand and takes it from him, their fingers meeting over the base of the gun, but then Stiles is all but jerking away. He loads the gun and checks the safety with harsh movements and a clenched jaw before he tells Derek to put on his ear and eye protection. He tells Derek that he’s taking off the safety and then the gun is back in his hand and Stiles is stepping away, back, and putting on his own protection.

Derek doesn’t wait for Stiles to tell him to shoot. He moves up to the line, drawing his arms up into horizontal lines that coalesce around the base of the weapon. He relaxes his stance, takes a deep breath, and lines up the gun to the target. It’s the outline of a person with paper targets over the head and heart. He moves his index finger up to curl over the trigger. He lets out the air from his lungs and pulls the trigger.

He misses. He isn’t really surprised. Shooting a gun is harder than it looks. The trigger on the gun is more difficult to pull than he thought it would be, and the recoil does take some getting used to. He’s well into the third 10 round magazine before he even hits the target and even then, it’s just barely on the shoulder. He has one more shot and hits the target in the side. He was aiming for the head, but hey, whatever works. It was progress. Slow progress, but progress nonetheless.

After the third clip is finished, Stiles goes back to the case and fishes out another gun. It looks like the same model, but to be honest Derek can’t really tell. He goes through the same safety check before he walks up to the line next to Derek. He loads the gun and motions for Derek to move back. Derek does and watches as Stiles bends his knees, moves his arms up and rests his cheek on his shoulder, before he is firing in four quick bursts. Derek can see that all of his shot hit where they were supposed to—two dead center over the heart and two on the middle of the forehead. It’s impressive to say the least, considering the ease with which Stiles moves.

He turns back to Derek and hands him the gun. “This is my personal gun. Try it. It’s got a different barrel for accuracy. It’s the same gun, but it might be a little easier.” The words sound a little muffled because of the ear coverings but Derek understands them anyway. He huffs a little before he steps back up to the line, taking the same stance he has earlier. He lifts his arms and sights down the barrel of the gun once more, lining it up with the target. He’s getting used to the feel of the gun in his hand, in the way it kicks back once the trigger is pulled. Somehow it still surprises him when he hits the target on his second round. He empties the rest of the clip and all but one hit the target. The last one is his best shot so far—the left temple.

He faintly hears Stiles whoop from behind him and doesn’t even try to hide the twitch of his lips as he turns around. “A killing blow! On your first day of target practice! Impressive.” The words are muffled, but Derek hears them all the same. Derek smiles at him, unable to contain his impartial stoicism when Stiles is smiling right back at him. Derek is aware it’s the first time he’s really acknowledged Stiles in days and for a moment he wonders why, why he even thought about giving Stiles up, because he’s smiling at Derek and moving closer and all Derek wants to do is wrap his arms around him and pull him into a kiss that will leave them both breathless, because Stiles is there, and Derek did something to be proud of for once. He wants to forget about the last few days; the funeral, the way he’s been acting, the sadness, the uncertainty. He just wants Stiles to always keep smiling at him like he is right now, right in this moment.

But then, maybe Stiles realizes that he’s walking toward Derek, because he stops and his face closes down again before he turns away from him. He finds one more magazine in the case and hands it to Derek without a word. Derek takes it from him and reloads just like he saw Stiles do before.

Stiles turns away to set up a fresh target, nodding at Derek after he’s done before he heads back behind him to watch him shoot. Derek tries not to think about the fact that he already regrets what’s going on between them, that he’s already ruined the fragile friendship that they’d managed to build in the last few weeks. It’s just another reason that he hates himself, another reason that he needs to learn how to protect himself, so that he can protect the people around him.

It’s only later, after the clip is empty and Stiles leaves the room to find another gun for him, that he really gets a good look at the gun in his hands for the first time. It’s Stiles’ personal gun, so maybe it shouldn’t surprise him to see it there. He knows that Stiles would’ve seen the irony, all things considered. When he gets a good look at the gun, there’s an outline of a wolf staring back at him from the top of it.

~

Stiles postpones his trip to San Diego until a few days later. The buyers are more than a little disgruntled, but Stiles tells them that if they want to work with him, they have to wait for him, and he has personal business he needs to take care of. Derek is in the other room when Stiles makes the phone call, so he only hears one half of the conversation, but it’s enough for Derek to know that Stiles is more than a little irritated that they can’t understand why he can’t make it, even though he explained about the funeral the last time he’d called them.

Derek is sitting in the living room, reading a book he pulled from one of the shelves in the basement about shooting techniques. They’d spent the whole afternoon the day before at the warehouse. Derek learned the basic differences between rifles and pistols and what a semi-automatic was. He’s more or less pretending to read when Lydia comes in to the room and sits down next to him. He tries to ignore her, but she pulls the book out of his hands and slams it shut next to her. Before he can even attempt to grab it back, Allison comes into the room and sits on the opposite side of him.

“Stiles said he took you to the gun range yesterday,” Allison says carefully, not looking at him. Derek makes a movement to get up, but Lydia is placing a firm hand on his shoulder and Allison’s hand is circling his wrist. “Derek, c’mon. If you’re…scared, or whatever, because of Deaton…” She looks at him then, her dark eyes sad, with shallow bags below them. “We’re all a little freaked out,” she’s whispering, “and I know you don’t want to hear this, but it wasn’t your fault.” Derek looks away from her then, clenching his jaw. “Hunters killed him, Derek. Not you. He was murdered. It wasn’t your fault.”

The touch on his wrist feels more like a burn and he pulls away from it, away from her, but then Lydia is grabbing his face in her well-manicured hand and turning his head sharply until he is looking into her brilliant green eyes. “Don’t you dare. We know you, Derek. We know what you’re doing. But it isn’t going to work. Not this time, buddy.”

Derek shakes his head to dislodge her grip, but then Danny is walking into the room as well. Derek has a sinking suspicion that the three of them planned this and he hates them a little for it. He doesn’t want to be rude to them, doesn’t want them to think less of him, but they’ll be hurt because of him, could die because of him and he could never forgive himself for that.

Danny walks over and kneels down in front of Derek. He sets his chin on Derek’s knee and gives him a small smile that makes his dimples flash. When he speaks, it’s in a whispered hush. “You think that by pushing all of us away, you’ll somehow be able to protect us, right?” He gives Derek a lingering look, but doesn’t let him speak, “That’s why you want to learn how to protect yourself. So that you can do more to protect all of us, do more to save us, because you feel like you couldn’t save Deaton. That’s what it is, isn’t it?”

Derek swallows hard, past the sudden lump in his throat over just how well they can see through him, just how much they know him. It hurts in a way that is bittersweet, that they could possibly know him this much, that there are still people that care so much about him that they won’t let him break away from them without a fight. And Derek doesn’t know if he can fight them, not like this. He doesn’t know if he wants to. Maybe he’s selfish. Maybe he’s just a coward.

Derek is shaking his head in an almost frantic way and when he tries to get up, tries to move, Stiles is leaning in from the doorway. He takes a step toward the couch, his expression a mess of something Derek can’t decipher. His eyes look so sad, and Derek looks away from them, unable to stand the way that the look on Stiles’ face makes him feel—like his heart is breaking, like the tension it causes in his chest will eat him alive. Stiles motions for the rest of them to move back, to move away from Derek a little bit, and they oblige. Stiles kneels down into Danny’s vacant spot, crossing his arms over Derek’s knees, resting his cheek against his forearm, looking up at Derek with big brown eyes that bore into his soul, and he can’t look away, not even when Stiles reaches out a hand to take one of Derek’s.

“Is that true, Der?” he asks softly, “Are you pushing us away to save us?” His thumb strokes over the back of Derek’s hand and he closes his eyes for a long moment. When he opens his eyes, Stiles brings their joined hands to his mouth and he kisses one of Derek’s knuckles.

Derek has to swallow twice before he can speak, “I’m poison.” The words are barely loud enough to be heard, but they all hear them anyway. Danny, Lydia, and Allison all press forward, all talking to Derek at once, and Derek knows it’s the first time they’ve heard him talk, but he’s still looking at Stiles’ sad eyes.

“Stop,” Stiles says. Derek doesn’t know if it’s to the others that are still talking, or to him. “Derek…what happened. All of it…” he shakes his head. “None of it was your fault. Bad things happen. You know that, but that doesn’t mean that all of it was because of you. You didn’t point the gun at Deaton.” He takes a breath before he speaks, slowly. “You didn’t make the virus.” When he speaks again, Derek can barely hear it, “You didn’t light the match.”

It feels like a punch to his stomach. The wind is knocked out of him by Stiles’ words and he is gasping for air, trying to push Stiles away, trying to get his hand back from him, but Stiles just moves until he is settled more securely between Derek’s legs and he wraps his arms around Derek’s waist.

Derek makes a motion to grab at Stiles, but all he can manage to do is to snake his hands into Stiles’ hair. He thinks about pulling, about using his newly acquires strength to get him away, but all he does is grab fistfuls of hair and hold on. “They all died because of me!” He can’t help the broken way the words leave his mouth, the way they sound hollow and colorless. He can’t make them understand, doesn’t want them to understand, so afraid that once they do, they’ll leave him all alone.

But Stiles is pulling Derek closer all the same, burying his head into his stomach, running his hands up and down Derek’s back in a way that should be awkward because of their position, but isn’t. “Derek. No, they died around you; not because of you.” He can feel the shake of Stiles’ head against his abs and cradles Stiles’ head a little bit more securely. He wants to argue, wants to say so many things, but then Stiles is pulling back, pulling away so that he can look him in the eye once more. “I—I used to feel like my mom died because of me.” Stiles’ face goes pale as he says the words and Derek feels something painful pull in his chest.

“Stiles—” his name sounds more like an elegy on Derek’s lips.

“Do you think I’m responsible for her death?” He asks sharply, placing his hands on Derek’s thighs so he can lift himself until they are almost eye to eye. “Is it my fault that she died of cancer, whether or not I felt like it was?”

Derek is shaking his head before Stiles even finishes speaking, lifting his hands up to cup his face, to run his thumb over his cheek. “Stiles…” he doesn’t know the words to say, doesn’t know how to make the pain in his eyes go away, so he does the only thing he can think of. He leans forward and places a soft, chaste kiss on Stiles’ forehead. “Never,” the word is barely a breath against Stiles’ skin.

Stiles moves a hand up too cover one of Derek’s that is still cupping his cheek. “Then stop blaming yourself for things that were out of your control.” He gives Derek’s hand a squeeze before he nuzzles against it. “Stop pushing me away, Derek. Please stop.” Stiles sounds bone weary tired and it makes Derek feel even worse, because he knows that he’s responsible for that weariness. Derek looks away from him, but sees Lydia, Allison, and Danny all staring at him and Stiles, so he looks back to sad, dark eyes. “Did you ever think that maybe we could protect you? That you could rely on us for a change? You don’t have to take care of us now. Let us take care of you, Derek.”

Derek can’t do anything but nod, even as Stiles is leaning forward and pressing his lips to Derek’s, even as his hands are on the nape of Derek’s neck and are pulling him toward him. The kiss is short, but leaves both of them a little breathless when they pull away and press their foreheads together. “I—I can’t lose you.” Derek closes his eyes as he says the words, too afraid to show his biggest fear to Stiles, but trusting him enough to know the truth, because he deserves it, because Derek needs to tell him.

He feels the huff of breath against his face as Stiles lets out a humorless laugh, and then there are hands in his hair, tugging sharply until he opens his eyes to look at Stiles from a few inches away. “You idiot,” he says, face flushing with what looks like anger. “You can’t lose me, but it’s perfectly acceptable for me to lose you?” Stiles’ mouth thins into a line and Derek just watches him, inches separating them, immersed in the way his eyes are glittering in the low summer light. “Un-fucking-believable!” And then Stiles is pressing forward to kiss Derek again, this time longer, more lips and teeth and tongue until it feels like Stiles is trying to crawl his way inside of Derek through his mouth. Derek doesn’t mind. He needs this kiss just as much, is just as desperate with the way his hands move over Stiles face, his shoulder, down his back, to settle at his waist and pull him up from where he is still kneeling on the floor to settle in his lap. “You,” Stiles is speaking between kisses, “are so,” another kiss, “ _infuriating_.”

Derek stops the kiss to trail soft kisses over Stiles’ jaw, before he cups his face again, “I’m sorry, Stiles. Shit, I didn’t—I never meant—”

“Shh.” Stiles presses a fingertip to Derek’s lips, “I know. It’s okay.” The side of his mouth lifts in a crooked grin, “You won’t get rid of me that easily.”

Derek feels the swell of some emotion he hasn’t felt in years rise up in his chest and threatens to choke him, but he pushes it down and falls back into Stiles’ magnetic dark eyes. “I never wanted to.” He’s looking at Stiles face, at his eyes, nose, lips, at the cut of his jaw, at the way his hair is slightly mussed. “I don’t know what I’d do without you.”

Stiles eyes go a little wider and he draws in a slow breath, like he’s willing himself to think before he speaks. He opens his mouth, on the verge of saying something, but a throat clears from the archway on the other side of the room. Derek remembers for the first time that they aren’t alone, but when he looks around, Danny, Lydia, and Allison are gone and the sheriff is standing by the archway of the room.

Derek takes his hands off Stiles and allows him to climb off his lap to sit on the couch next to him. When Stiles sees who it is he lets out an exaggerated groan. “Dad. To what do I owe this pleasure?” He runs his hands over his face before he gives his father a long look. “No one—no one died, did they?”

The sheriff shakes his head and walks over to the recliner. “No, not this time. I just. Hell, I wanted to see if you were okay, because you seemed a little off at the funeral yesterday, but I guess you’re doing okay?” He says the last with a meaningful look in Derek’s direction.

Derek finds Stiles’ hand next to him and laces their fingers together. “Sir,” he says with a nod at the sheriff before he runs his thumb over Stiles’ knuckles.

“Derek. You and I need to have a talk about some things soon,” he says it like a warning, and Derek knows that it will be about Stiles. “But that can wait. I’m here to offer you a spot in the Witness Protection Program.” He lets the words hang there, lets the question linger.

“What? What do you mean?” Stiles asks.

His father sighs, “Derek had to fake his own death for his own protection and there are people out there—mass murderers mind you—who are after him. He qualifies. We could protect him, send him away to somewhere else and he could be safe until we found these bastards.” He looks from Stiles to Derek, the question evident on his face, waiting for Derek to answer.

Stiles looks at him then, too. He doesn’t say anything, just holds onto his hand, letting him think about what he should do, brown eyes offering up nothing, but Derek can see the disappointment in them, knows that Stiles thinks he will leave. Derek already knows, though. “I think I have all the protection I need here, sir.” He says nonchalantly, shrugging a little in Stiles’ direction.

The corner of the sheriff’s mouth moves up and he lets out a laugh, “That’s my boy. In that case, let me be the first to say that this is a stupid decision,” he gives a meaningful look at Stiles, “but I approve.” He is walking out of the house before either Stiles or Derek can say anything to that; before they can even manage to work out the fact that the sheriff had just basically given his consent on their relationship.

This is not how Derek pictures the day ending, but when Stiles leans over to kiss him again, he can’t really say that he minds.

~

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the long gap in updates! Please don't hate me.
> 
> Any and all comments and/or criticisms are accepted and appreciated.


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Un beta'd so all of the mistakes are mine!
> 
> I don't really know what this chapter is.

They go to the gun range again the next day. This time, Derek learns how to shoot various rifles until Stiles is satisfied with his skill. It isn’t until later, after they leave and get home, when the day is waning into night that Stiles turns to Derek and says, “So, I have to go to San Diego tomorrow.”

They are upstairs, standing in the hallway by Stiles’ bedroom door. Lydia and Allison are out on a date—seeing the newest Nicholas Sparks movie or something. Danny is still at a meeting with a long-time client, showing him a new set of knives that he got his hands on. Derek and Stiles are alone, in a house that no longer feels lonely, even though it’s all but empty. It’s the type of stillness and quiet that settles your nerves, rather than raising your anxiety. Derek feels content; truly; utterly. To just be alone with Stiles in the house that is _theirs_ , all of theirs. It’s nice; nice in a way Derek never would’ve thought a home could ever be again.

He knows that Stiles has a job to do; knows that they can’t always be together, but he doesn’t know what to say to him now. So he says nothing, just looks at him and gives him a small nod that is somewhere between acceptance and encouragement. At least, he hopes that’s how it comes across.

Stiles just rolls his eyes and grabs Derek’s hand to pull him closer. “Don’t go all stoic on me now.” He settles his hands on Derek’s hips, thumbs stroking along his hip bones. “I know that things have changed now—with Deaton and everything—but I still want you to go with me.” Stiles leans forward to press a soft kiss to Derek’s shoulder before he presses his cheek to the spot, “Unless you’ve changed your mind?”

The words are whispered against Derek’s throat and they send shivers down his spine. He moves his hands to settle on the other man’s arms, feeling the strength that lingers just below the smooth skin. It’s just a simple question, but it feels like Stiles is asking about so much more than just a trip. Maybe it’s the way his voice gets lower; the way it ghosts over his skin. Maybe it’s the way Stiles’ thumbs have snaked under Derek’s tank; the way the roughness of his calluses drags at Derek’s skin, feeling so much more intimate than a simple touch should. “No,” Derek whispers the word, as if saying it too loudly will break whatever calm silence the house is keeping around them. He moves his hands until they settle on Stiles’ back, trailing lines up and down over his spine, “I haven’t changed my mind. About anything.”

He feels the warm puff of silent laughter against his throat and swallows audibly, even as Stiles nuzzles further into the crook of his neck, moving his lips over the pulse of his throat. “Good,” the word is breathy, husky; it twists things low inside of Derek, even as Stiles’ teeth come out and scrape over his skin. His hands shift higher up under Derek’s shirt, trailing warmth over his lower torso until he shudders from the sensations.

“Stiles,” he tries to say, but the name comes out broken, raspy, and then Stiles’ lips are on his and he doesn’t have to say anything. He feels Stiles walk him backwards, feels the cool press of the wall at his back, but then Stiles’ hands are moving over Derek’s skin and he is kissing him like he can somehow drink him down and Derek is lost in the feel of warm, solid flesh pressing against him, moving over him.

It isn’t until he breaks the kiss, until he uses his hands on Stiles’ back to move him closer, to bite kisses against his jaw, that they settle together, bodies flush, and Derek can feel the hard press of Stiles’ denim-clad erection against the front of his own too-tight jeans. It steals his breath, drives a spike of pleasure through his body and he shudders under the sensation, moans against the skin of Stiles’ jaw, still trapped between his teeth.

“Fuck,” Stiles gasps, fingertips digging into the skin of his waist, hips canting against Derek’s until their covered erections rub together, the friction enough to rip groans from both of them. “Fuck, Derek. I need—” He settles his grip tight on Derek’s hips—tight enough that Derek can already feel the bruises blossom—and maneuvers them until they are straddling each other’s thighs. He watches as Stiles throws his head back, the long line of his neck bowed as he rocks against Derek’s thigh, and leans forward to lick over his Adam’s apple before he captures his mouth again.

They move together, letting the delicious friction drive them closer, faster, harder against each other until they are both gasping, on the crest of too much and not enough—not nearly enough. Derek whimpers against Stiles’ mouth and pulls away, breathing ragged, sweat dripping down his neck, trailing over the Goosebumps raised in his skin. He looks at Stiles, his hair mussed, the pupils of his eyes wrecked wide, biting his lip, and then his hand is moving down to the front of Derek’s jeans, unzipping them in a frenzy and then long fingers are wrapping around his cock.

Derek’s back bows and he throws his head backwards, hitting it painfully against the wall, but he doesn’t even really register it because Stiles’ hand is moving over him in a tights fist, thumb sweeping at his head, pressing against his slit, and he is drowning in the sensations. He lets Stiles stroke him for a little bit, overwhelmed by the feel of his hand, of his rough fingertips dragging over his cock, of the slickening slide as his hand move up and down his shaft.

Derek finds his own hand moving down, covering Stiles’ thick, hot, hardness where it is trapped under metal teeth and denim. He massages it, finds the head and rubs it through the material until Stiles moans his name. He feels the hand around his cock tighten to the point that it’s almost painful, but then the hand is gone and Derek makes a sound of protest even as Stiles tugs at him and turns him around almost violently, so that Derek’s front is flush to the wall and Stiles’ body presses against his back. The body molds to his form until Derek can feel the heat of his body from his ankles to his neck.

Before he even opens his mouth in an attempt to say something, Stiles is moving against him—moving the hard bulge in his jeans against Derek’s ass and Derek breathes out something that is a cross between a moan and a gasp and he is shivering from the rough pleasure. The change in position makes the angle for Stiles’ hand on his cock better and the grip tightens and moves with a speed that leaves Derek feeling wrecked, breathless, hot all over—even as Stiles grinds himself against Derek’s denim-clad ass.

He can feel the warmth of him even through the many layers of clothing—can feel the outline of Stiles’ cock as he kicks Derek’s ankles apart so that he can settle closer, harder, against the curve of his bottom. Derek is feverish. He can feel a flush creep up his body, feel the pleasure break out like a wave that’s pulled by the moon, dragging his orgasm out in broken shudders that leave him panting, gasping, pushing back against the hardness settled between his ass cheeks, needing to be closer, needing more—so much more that for a moment he’s dizzy with the need and the heat and the pleasure and he moans Stiles’ name, dropping his forehead to the cool wall at the same moment that he cums into Stiles’ hand. Stiles moves his hips a few more times before he stills and shudders hotly against the back of Derek’s neck. He lets out a throaty groan that licks along Derek’s spine before he drops his chin onto Derek’s shoulder.

They stay like that for a small while, just breathing, willing their bodies not to collapse, recovering their bones, until Stiles breathes a laugh against Derek’s ear.

Embarrassment hits Derek like a ton of bricks. Heat creeps up his face until he can feel the tips of his ears turning red. He turns his face away from where Stiles is still perched on his shoulder. He thinks about moving away all together, but Stiles’ hand is still wrapped loosely around him inside of his ruined boxers. He can’t stand it though; the silent laughter in his ear after sex that reminds him all too well of someone he should’ve forgotten about a long time ago. He grabs Stiles’ wrist and pulls his hand out of his pants, turning away to adjust himself and zip up his jeans.

He makes it one step before he feels a hand wrap around his bicep. “Whoa, wait,” Stiles’ voice is raspy and he clears his throat once Derek stops, “Derek, what’s wrong?”

Derek doesn’t look at him though; can’t. He stands with his back rigid, face burning from the mortification that is working its way through his veins. “You laughed,” the words come out before he’s even realized that his mouth is open, and he hates himself for the way his voice sounds so small, so hurt, so insecure, that the shame starts to creep back into his mind, he starts to feel like the person he used to be all over again—

But then Stiles is there in front of him, stopping him with tousled hair and beard burned skin and eyes that look more than a little hurt. And that, that isn’t fair. Stiles has no right to feel hurt right now, has no right to open his mouth and ask “What?”

It’s his eyes—those whiskey browns that see everything inside of him, that always have, that make him feel raw and needy in a way he hates, but craves—that makes Derek close his eyes and swallow hard. “I—was it…” He takes a deep breath and opens his eyes, not quite managing to look at Stiles, “was it so bad?”

Before he can really register the movement, his back is against the wall once more and Stiles’ lips are stealing the question from his mouth. “No,” he says after the almost violent clash of lips is over, “Not bad, never bad.” He presses one more fierce kiss to Derek’s mouth before he breathes a heavy sigh and moves so that their chests are flush together. “You want to know why I laughed?”

Derek, still stunned from the rough kiss, looks up at that, looks at the small quirk to Stiles’ mouth, before his eyes lock onto Stiles’.

Stiles shifts until their foreheads are pressed together, “I was thinking that if things are always this intense with us, sex with you may kill me.”

A breathless laugh rips from Derek’s parted lips and he’s left staring into Stiles’ eyes, drunk on the whiskey browns, drowning in them, until everything fades and focuses on just the inch of separation between them. Derek is the first one to move, to close the distance, to place the softest of kisses on the corner of Stiles still-swollen lips. “Can I sleep with you tonight?” he murmurs, even as he presses another soft kiss to Stiles’ jaw.

“Please do,” Stiles breathes, pulling back from Derek in one swift motion, before he takes his hand and pulls Derek into his bedroom. “But let’s get cleaned up first.”

~

Stiles offers Derek a pair of boxers before they take turns showering. They are lying down on top of the comforter on Stiles’ bed, the remnants of the summer heat leaking in through the screened-in window. It’s dark outside, but Derek can see some stars from where he’s lying and he smiles. He’s always loved the sky, always loved the sky at night. Most of it had to do with being a werewolf, he knows; keeping track of the lunar cycle, knowing it like the back of his hand. He’s spent his life wading in the pull of the moon, like some wave—without thought, without consequence—simply admiring the silver-bright glow of the moon, letting it pull at the strings inside of him like some sort of puppeteer. But he didn’t really mind. It was how things had been, how he thought they always would be. But now he knows differently. Now he knows what it’s like to look at the moon; to look, and see, but not feel the strings inside of him pulling taut, not feeling like he will break if he pulls away from it.

Fingertips ghost over his hip and he twists until he can see Stiles. He’s closer than he was before, just mere inches separating them. Stiles’ hand moves until its flat, low on his abdomen, just grazing the elastic waistband of the boxers he’s wearing. His hand is warm, the smooth dry skin like a furnace to his always cold body. He moves in to the touch, turning onto his side and wrapping one arm around Stiles’ bare waist.

“What were you thinking about?” Stiles asks as he wraps one arm around Derek’s back and moves the other up and down his side, dragging the knuckles on his skin.

Derek closes his eyes and places his cheek on Stiles’ shoulder. “The moon,” he answers softly. “It’s full tonight.”

The hand trailing up and down his side stops for a heartbeat before it picks back up, somehow softer, more soothing than before. “Derek,” he feels the warm breath from Stiles’ sigh, “are you okay?”

He opens his eyes, sliding his cheek against Stiles shoulder in a nod. “It’s weird,” he admits, “but I think I’ll be okay.”

They lay in silence for what only feels like a few minutes before Stiles speaks. “I missed you,” he whispers in a voice that Derek can barely hear without his enhanced hearing. But he does hear it, “when we thought you were…dead. I missed you so much.” Stiles shifts him until Derek is lying mostly on his chest so that he can look at him in the darkness. “I…hated you. I—I thought you died and I hated you for leaving.” He can hear the hard swallow Stiles makes and something in his stomach starts to go queasy, “You—you were the alpha. You were supposed to be there, supposed to be there for us. I hated you because you weren’t. I hated you more than I missed Scott, more than I missed _you_.”

Derek tries to move then, tries to push up from where he’s lying atop Stiles, but the arms around him just hold him tighter, and then Stiles is nuzzling his jaw against Derek’s cheek. Derek lets out a shaky sigh and one of Stiles’ hands moves to the back of his neck. “It took me a long time to realize that it wasn’t you I hated, though. I didn’t hate that you left me so much as you were just another person taken from me. And I hated that. I hated that you were taken, that you were gone, when you were supposed to be there to protect the rest of the pack.” He feels fingers drag through his hair and lifts his eyes to Stiles’. “But then, one day, I realized something.” For the first time, Stiles looks away from Derek. “We all expected you to be there to protect us, but there was no one there to protect you.” The silence hangs between them. “We failed you, Derek. We all failed you. And I’m so sorry for that.”

Derek is trembling—can feel his muscles straining, feel his fingers twitching—even as he reaches for Stiles and cradles his cheeks, even as he shakes his own head almost violently. “No. Stiles. No, you didn’t.” He feels almost frantic, needing Stiles to understand, needing him to know the truth. “You could never fail me. It was my fault. All of it was my fault. I should’ve known better, shouldn’t’ve let my guard down. It was a stupid mistake. You—you were right to hate me. You should still hate me.”

Stiles is shaking his head then, placing his hands atop the ones on his cheeks. “Derek…I don’t blame you. You couldn’t have known. We all—we all should’ve been more careful. It wasn’t your fault.” He tilts his head to the side and ghosts his lips over the pulse of Derek’s wrist. “And I—I don’t hate you, Derek. I love you.”

Derek feels the breath leave his lungs at the words. Words said less like a declaration and more like a fact; like it’s the simplest thing he’s ever said, like it shouldn’t matter, like it’s not making Derek’s throat close up or making his body tremble harder—like it isn’t fixing parts of him even as it is breaking the only piece of himself he has left.

He pants out a breath, stroking his thumbs over the curve of Stiles’ cheeks, over the corners of his mouth, over the full curve of his bottom lip, “Stiles,” he exhales the name, exhales the pain and the hurt and the guilt and the shame and bends down to close the gap between their mouths. He swallows down his own name, renewed again on Stiles’ lips.

They kiss until they are both breathless, until their lips are sore and their arms are tired and their hearts are lighter. They kiss until it blossoms into something feather light, until it’s more of a press of closed lips than an opening of them; less of a clash of tongues and teeth, and more of something new, something just as deep, just as devastating.

Eventually, the wind from the window sends shivers down Derek’s spine and Stiles shifts until he is pulling up the blanket from the foot of the bed. He wraps his arms around Derek and presses one last kiss to the top of his head. They stay like that until Derek’s eyes drift closed, until he’s warm and content for what feels like the first time in his life. Stiles murmurs for him to “sleep. Just sleep.” And so he does.

~

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow, I am so ridiculously sorry for the long, long lack of updates. This has probably been the most difficult semester of my life. School and work are my number one priorities, so everything else takes a back seat. Good news is that my semester is over and all I have is work, so I'll have a lot more time to write. Aka, to finish this fic, because it's nearing its end.
> 
> Any and all comments and/or criticisms are accepted and appreciated!


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Un beta'd (like the story of my life), so all of the mistakes are mine!
> 
> Explicit content makes an appearance in this chapter.
> 
> Also, updated the tags.

The sun breaks through the window in a warm haze that filters in through Derek’s closed eyelids. When he blinks awake, the room is colored in a golden rose glow that dusts over him and Stiles, where they lay intertwined on the bed, sheets and blanket kicked to the foot of the bed. It only takes a moment for Derek to realize where he is, and once he does, he shifts as softly as he can so he can see Stiles. Stiles is sprawled out next to him, an arm thrown low over Derek’s stomach, his cheek resting against Derek’s chest. Their legs are so tangled together that Derek can’t seem to see where one starts and the other ends. He doesn’t really mind, though, because Stiles’ body is warm and firm and smooth along his side and all Derek wants to do is curl into his heat like a blanket; like Stiles is the sun, or the stars, and he is burning just for Derek.

Derek shifts the arm that isn’t wrapped around Stiles’ back to bring his hand to Stiles’ face. His mouth is slightly open with sleep and Derek strokes a thumb over his full upper lip, gently, softly, before he moves his thumb to stroke over the curve of his cheek, to drag the backs of his fingers down, over Stiles’ jaw, down to his neck, his collarbone.

Stiles is slow to open his eyes, but Derek watches, mesmerized, as Stiles’ eyes find Derek’s, as his eyes, darker than normal from sleep and the golden light, bore into his. He watches the lopsided grin split his lips, watches as Stiles pushes himself up onto an elbow, so that he can press his lips to Derek’s.

It’s like a switch goes off inside of Derek with the touch of their lips, like that’s what he’s been waiting for, and he lets out a breath that he didn’t even know he was holding. “Morning,” Stiles’ says, voice sleep-rough and low; throaty in a way that makes Derek shiver just a little.

“Morning,” he murmurs back, pulling Stiles into his chest so he can wrap his arms around the other man’s naked back. Stiles kisses at Derek’s neck and Derek fights off another shiver. He clears his throat and strokes a hand up and down Stiles’ spine, “what time is our flight?”

Stiles presses a soft kiss just below Derek’s ear before lips brush over his jaw, “not ‘till later this morning. Meeting’s at five.” His lips ghost their way back to Derek’s ear and he shudders at the first touch of teeth to his earlobe.

“Stiles,” he all but gasps, running his hands up Stiles’ back until they fist in his hair, pulling him back just enough so that Derek can look at him, just enough so that he can lean in and kiss him, just enough so their tongues can twist and their teeth can scrape before Stiles is pulling away. Derek breathes shakily as Stiles kisses his way over Derek’s body; warm, dry presses of lips over his neck, his collarbones, his chest, down to the lines of his abs, that leave Derek fisting his hands where they lay on the bed. He shudders at the feel of Stiles warm, wet tongue flicking out to lick at a nipple, taking it into his mouth and biting down a little too much, a little too hard, but Derek writhes, hands moving to the back of Stiles’ neck. Stiles’ hands slide down Derek’s sides, trailing over his skin like some sort of fire, the tips of his fingers slipping just barely under his—Stiles’—boxers, igniting his blood like smoldering embers, even as Stiles’ mouth latches on to the other nipple, giving it the same too-rough treatment, until Derek is gasping. Stiles’ mouth moves down again, this time trailing wet, open-mouthed kisses on Derek’s skin until his tongue licks a stripe over the soft hairs trailing down from Derek’s bellybutton. He feels the hands on his hips slip fully under the band of the boxers, feels Stiles’ big hands pull the boxers down from his hips, even as he sucks at the skin at the v of his hip, as his tongue strokes lower and lower, his mouth so, so close to where Derek wants it.

Stiles bypasses it though. Before Derek can do anything, Stiles is lifting himself up from Derek’s body and using his grip on Derek’s hips to flip him over onto his stomach in a move that leaves him a little dizzy. He’s trying to stop his head from spinning when he feels Stiles settle over his back, body slithering up Derek’s until Stiles’ hips are settled securely against his ass and Stiles is mouthing at the back of Derek’s neck, teeth gently scraping over the skin before he bites at the flesh, soothing it with his tongue. Derek can feel the start of a hickey, can’t help the thought that this will be the first one he’s ever had, without the werewolf healing powers. The bruise will take. With sudden clarity, Derek knows that he wants it, wants Stiles to leave a mark, for this to last. The thought makes him close his eyes, but he can’t dwell on it long, because Stiles is trailing his tongue over Derek’s spine, licking at the small of his back, nibbling at the twin dimples at the base of his spine.

It isn’t until Derek shivers at the feel of a small puff of air over his ass cheek that he realizes Stiles must’ve pulled the boxers down a little when he flipped him. He can feel the band where it settles under the curve of his ass, feel it where it’s caught on the swell of his cock trapped underneath him. He feels the breath on his ass cheek again and it’s the only warning he has before Stiles is biting down on the swell of one cheek. His whole body writhes and a moan escapes from his lips before he can bite down on it. Once again, Stiles soothes the bite with his tongue, even as a hand starts to massage at his other cheek. Derek lets out a small groan, dropping his head down to the pillow. He isn’t prepared at all when he feels Stiles’ hot tongue slip between his ass and follow the line down to swipe over his hole.

Derek gasps—he can’t help it. The sensation is foreign to him, but the warm-wet slide of Stiles’ tongue doesn’t feel bad, doesn’t feel awkward or intrusive—just a little odd. But that is forgotten when Stiles’ hands squeeze at his ass cheeks, strong fingers working at the muscles of his ass until Derek feels himself start to relax and Stiles’ tongue licks at his hole again, tracing the outside until Derek shudders. Stiles’ hands are still kneading at his flesh but then he feels them slow to a stop, thumbs flitting over his hole to pull at his cheeks, spreading him in what way he could with the boxers still binding his thighs together. Stiles licks a long stripe from Derek’s balls to his hole before his tongue tentatively presses inside. Derek can feel himself start to clench on Stiles’ tongue and Stiles moans against him, into him, the vibrations making Derek’s cock twitch, making him moan in response.

Stiles pulls his tongue out, only to press it back in again, ripping a moan from his throat, working Derek open with his mouth, warming him from the inside, thrusting his tongue in deeper and deeper, until the slick slide of Stiles’ tongue makes a sweat break out on Derek’s forehead and he is all but rutting back against the press of the appendage. His cock is still trapped in the boxers, between his body and the bed, and he desperately needs it free, needs to touch himself, needs the tight heat to distract him, needs something—anything—because Stiles’ mouth is almost too much.

Derek is breathing heavy, throat dry, but he manages to say Stiles’ name, makes his shaky arm reach behind him to run over the back of Stiles’ head. And that, that must be what Stiles is waiting for, because Stiles suddenly moves his hands back to Derek’s hips, pulling them up from the bed until his ass is in the air. He quickly catches on and rests on his elbows as Stiles pulls the boxers from his hips, down his legs, until they are forgotten on the floor when Stiles mouth moves back to his ass, diving back into him with a vigor that steals the breath from Derek’s lungs, the new position making his tongue go deeper. Stiles fucks him with his tongue a little bit more and then he licks another stripe down Derek’s ass, to his balls, taking one into his mouth at the same time that a thumb presses just barely inside of him. He gasps, back arching, even as his hips press back into the touch. Stiles wastes no time before sucking the other one into his mouth, rolling it over on his tongue in a way that makes Derek’s cock twitch unbidden toward his abdomen.

 “Lube,” he gasps out, “please.”

He can feel Stiles still at that before another kiss is pressed to the base of his spine. “Are you—are you sure?”

Derek twists his head back to look at Stiles, whose face is buried in the small of his back and who has a hand trailing over Derek’s ass crack, a fingertip brushing against his hole. “Fuck, Stiles,” it comes out as a broken whisper, “yes. Please,” he begs, when the fingertip presses slowly inside of him.

Stiles lifts his head then, eyes dark and large, lips puffy and red, bathed in sunlight, and he pushes the finger in, just to feel Derek clench around it. “Okay.”

He’s gone for a moment, dropping down on the bed to reach the nightstand, opening a drawer to pull out some lube. Derek hears a pop before Stiles settles once again behind him. When his finger comes back, the tip slips inside of him in one smooth motion that makes Derek shudder, exhale brokenly. He slowly works it in and out, until it’s pressed in to the knuckle and Stiles twists his wrist in a way that makes him press against something, glide over it just right, and it steals what little breath Derek managed to drag back into his lungs.

He pulls his finger out slowly, before he presses back with a second digit. Derek winces the slightest bit at the stretch, but it’s still slick and warm and Stiles’ calloused fingers are just rough enough inside of him that it feels so unbelievably _good_ when he strokes over that spot again. Derek can feel his dick start to leak a little as Stiles gently rubs his fingertips over his prostate, massaging it with small circles that leave his legs trembling just a little. He twists his hand again and scissors his fingers inside of him until Derek moans. Stiles pulls his fingers out and bites at Derek’s ass cheek again, the skin still trapped between his teeth as he presses three fingers back inside of him and twists them again and again until Derek is pushing back against them, just waiting for when they brush over his prostate, but Stiles is teasing him now, only pushing them in shallowly, milking the whimpers from Derek’s body every time he pulls them out.

It isn’t long before Derek’s body feels like it’s on fire and he is panting into the pillow, hips rocking backwards in a desperation that he’s never felt before. His body is shaking, needing something more than this, needing to find completion with more than fingers and a tongue. He drops fully onto the bed with a sudden moan, “Stiles,” he pants the words out, “please. Please, I need—” he breaks off with a groan as Stiles removes his fingers.

He feels a hand run down his sweaty back and sighs, “Okay,” Stiles says softly. “Okay, turn over for me Derek,” he urges, “want to see your face.”

Derek rolls over onto his back to see Stiles popping the lid of the lube, pouring some into his hand before he reaches down to stroke over himself, his dick long and slick, glistening in the sunlight with the lube smeared over it. Stiles strokes over his reddened head and Derek loses all sense of thought, feels his mouth go dry, feels the blood start to run faster in his veins as his cock leaks a little more precum. “Fuck,” he moans, hips lifting to thrust at nothing.

A sound escapes Stiles’ lips and then he is settling between Derek’s legs, one arm snaking under his knee to pull his legs further apart, his mouth coming down to capture Derek’s in a filthy kiss that leaves them both breathless and panting into each other’s mouths.

Stiles shifts a little, moving a hand down between their bodies. Derek feels the head of Stiles’ cock rub over his entrance and he closes his eyes against the pleasure, feels himself clench at the phantom sensation, wanting—needing—Stiles inside of him. And then suddenly Stiles is lining himself up, guiding himself inside with an insistent push that is almost too much, too soon, filling Derek in a way that is on the crest of uncomfortable pain, but then Stiles’ hand is reaching out and wrapping around Derek’s long neglected cock and Derek can’t think, can’t breathe, can only feel the dual push and pull, the rhythm in sync as Stiles pulls out, presses back in, a little deeper, a little faster. His lips press against Derek’s throat and all Derek can do is hook a leg behind Stiles’ and pull him closer. He moves his hands down Stiles’ spine until he reaches his ass, grabbing at it in brutal fistfuls as Stiles thrusts roughly, deeply, moving his body in a way that seems to caress every inch inside of him.

Stiles shifts a little more, pulling at the knee still in the bend of his arm, lifting Derek’s hips up just a little, before he sinks his cock back in, the angle better somehow, because now Derek can feel the press of Stiles over his prostate, again and again, rubbing over it with every deep stroke. Stiles works himself up into an almost punishing rhythm, the hand around Derek’s cock growing tight enough that it’s almost too much, but then his thumb presses roughly against the head of Derek’s cock and Derek sees stars for a second, clenching tightly around Stiles, making him let out a ragged breath, moaning Derek’s name before he fucks into him in earnest, losing his rhythm, removing his hand from Derek’s cock to grab at his hips, to pull his body closer with every forward motion of his own hips, snapping their bodies together almost violently, until Derek is left writhing, twisting his body as if to get away from the almost brutal force, but then Stiles teeth sink in to the skin at the crook of his neck on one particularly rough thrust and everything goes white.

The pleasure rolls over Derek in waves, pulling—ripping—the orgasm from him with a shattered shout that echoes in the room, even as Stiles’ hips falter, as Derek cums between their bodies, as he loses sound and sight, as the teeth at his throat let go, as he loses himself in sensation after sensation—in the feel of Stiles’ hot breath like fire over his wounded skin, in the feel of blood dribbling from the bite, in the feel of his own hot cum splattering his skin, in the way his ass clenches so tightly around Stiles that he can all but _feel_ Stiles pulsing inside of him, in the punishing grip on his hip that is sure to leave more marks on his skin, in the way his legs are trembling from spreading himself open, in the way that Stiles gives one last hard thrust and stills, buried so deeply inside of him that it feels a little like they are merged into one body.

It takes longer than it should for both of them to regain some semblance of normal breathing; takes longer still for either of them to get the strength to move. Stiles is the first to move, releasing Derek’s leg and rolling off of him so that he can press himself against Derek’s side, throwing an arm over his stomach, not even caring about the cum cooling there. Derek turns his head to press his lips to Stiles’ forehead, closing his eyes when he hears Stiles sigh, when he snuggles closer.

As Stiles curls closer into his side—as they lay in the sunshine, lay in their afterglow—something inside of him pulls toward Stiles, drags at something long forgotten, and he think maybe he had it wrong; maybe Stiles isn’t the sun at all; maybe he’s the moon.

~

The rest of the morning passes in a lazy haze of sleeping, showering, and packing overnight bags before they are on the private plane. Derek only freaks out a little bit because of how small it is, but Stiles is there, lacing their hands together, grounding him, and he falls into a relaxed sleep. Derek doesn’t wake up until they arrive in San Diego, and even then, the ride to the hotel room passes in a blur.

They decide it would be best for Derek to just stay in the hotel room while Stiles goes to his meeting—since he is actually still considered legally dead and all, his appearance would probably be hard to explain. They arrive in what has to be the nicest hotel Derek has ever been to. That being said, it wasn’t like he spent a lot of—read, any—time in hotels growing up, being a werewolf and all. Derek finds himself kind of just staring at everything while they take the elevator up to their floor to the room reserved for Stilinski Standard Global.

The room is more like a mini-penthouse than a hotel room; the multi-room suite is bigger than some houses Derek has seen before. Stiles sets the bags he’s carrying onto the couch, gently—you could never be too careful with armaments, even if the guns are unloaded and the safeties are on—before he turns to grab his overnight bag from Derek.

“I’ve got to change real quick, then get going.” He sighs, walking over to what must be the bedroom. Derek follows him and stands in the doorway as Stiles sets the bag on the bed, unzipping it. “These guys are real jerks—customers from when Chris was still in charge.” Stiles pulls out a pair of pressed black slacks and cracks his neck. “Personally, I think I could do without their few measly thousand dollar purchases every few months for my sanity, but, y’know—longstanding customers and all that. I think they would shoot me if I were late, though.” He pulls out a white button-up collared shirt before he strips off the navy v-neck he’s wearing, leaving his undershirt on. Derek watches as he strips off his jeans and dresses again in the different outfit. He watches as Stiles transforms from the young man Derek is just starting to really, truly get to know—from the man that held him and kissed him and opened him up the night before—to Mr. Stilinski: CEO of Stilinski Standard Global, one of the top armament companies in Northwest North America. He wears both looks so well that it is almost a shock to Derek. But this, this person, this is Stiles, too. This is the person Stiles became after the virus, after losing almost everyone else that he cared about, after losing his best friend.

Stiles is struggling with the tie around his neck, the knot messy and off center, like he can't get it to look the way he wants, and he pulls it in agitation. Derek sighs softly before walking over and standing in front of him. “Here, let me,” he murmurs, hands reaching out to cover Stiles’. Stiles drops his hands before he gives Derek as small grin. Derek undoes the awful knot that Stiles managed to make and starts it over, tying the tie in two quick motions before pulling it tight and flipping down the collar. He lets a thumb brush against the pulse at Stiles’ throat, “there you go. Now you look like a professional.”

Stiles moves a hand up and places it over Derek’s, thumb stroking along his knuckles as he turns his head in, bringing Derek’s hand up to press his lips to the palm. They stay like that for a long moment before Stiles shifts and moves his arms to wrap around Derek’s waist, pulling him closer so that he can rest his chin on his shoulder. “I’m glad you’re here.” He barely hears Stiles’ words, but he smiles nonetheless, pressing a quick kiss to Stiles’ neck.

Stiles pulls away with a sigh, like he really doesn’t want to leave from his spot in Derek’s arms and something inside of Derek clenches at that thought. Derek shakes his head a little as Stiles folds the clothes he wore on the plane ride and puts them back into his bag before zipping it and placing it on the foot of the bed. “I really do have to get going,” he says, lips pressing into a frown that makes Derek grin just a little.

They walk out of the bedroom together before Stiles heads toward the couch, picking up the bags of weapons. “Okay, there’s food in the mini-fridge, or room service or whatever. And don’t worry about paying, cuz it’s all going on the SSG tab.” He swings one of the bags over his shoulders before he turns back to Derek. “I might be a while. These guys like to nit-pick every gun and barter the prices to death.” He rolls his eyes and Derek lets out a laugh.

“Okay. I’ll be here when you get back.”

Stiles has just finished slinging the other bag over his opposite shoulder and he stills, giving Derek a look that makes Derek shuffle on his heels and duck his head, before Stiles is walking around the couch toward him. “I could get used to the sound of that.” A smile splits across his face before he pulls Derek in for a kiss; one press of lips, before a longer, deeper one that leaves Derek feeling a little breathless when he breaks away. Stiles presses his forehead to Derek’s, sighing heavily. “Okay. Okay, I really have to go.” He strokes his thumb over Derek’s cheek once before he is pulling away and walking out of the hotel room.

Derek can still feel the ghost of his touch.

~

It isn’t long after Stiles leaves that Derek decides to get some food, not having eaten since their late breakfast. After he eats his Philly cheese steak, he stretches out on the couch—a hotel room with a couch still blows his mind a little bit—and flicks on the giant flat screen television, trying not to count the minutes until Stiles comes back. He lets himself get lost in some documentary that he thinks Stiles—maybe not the old Stiles, from before his graduation, but the new one—would’ve loved and he smiles, thinking about him.

Stiles. Stiles, who somehow managed to become the most important person in Derek’s life. Stiles, whose absence, even now, feels like a part of himself is missing and is only filled when he’s there, smiling at Derek, kissing him, touching him—just existing, the two of them. He makes Derek feel like, for the first time, it’s okay that he exists; like it’s okay that he’s still here, like he _deserves_ to be alive. And that—that devastates him in the best way possible. Stiles makes Derek feel like maybe there’s a reason that he survived—that he always is the one to survive. Like maybe his death might be a bad thing, like maybe Stiles wants him there—like maybe he _needs_ him in a way that Derek needs him, too.

Realization hits Derek like a ton of bricks; he’s happy. He’s honest to god happy, for what feels like the first time in longer than he can remember. For so long, everything had been twisted and tragic and horrible; there had been so much death and guilt and shame and violence that it overwhelmed all of the good that Derek had ever known. He’s lost so much, over and over again, becoming the living victim, his body surviving again and again while more and more pieces of him withered and wilted away with every death, every mistake, every loss, every new collapse of what he’d managed to fragilely build. But this—now—what he’s made with Stiles—what Stiles had made with Danny and Lydia and Allison—this was starting to feel like something that couldn’t be broken, like for the very first time, Derek would be able to be a part of something great.

Stiles had risen from the ashes of his life once, twice, and made something of himself, dragging those he loved and cared about—those that were left—along with him, lifting them up and pulling them from their own grief, showing them that it’s okay to move on, to get better, even if it cost him something that he still didn’t quite seem to have back. Derek knows that to Stiles, though, what it cost him was worth it for Lydia, for Danny, for Allison. He was their rock—their alpha, Derek muses wryly. Stiles was there for the rest of them when everyone else was gone, there for them in a way that must’ve hurt him every day, because no one had been there like that for _him_. Stiles had grieved and suffered for almost a year, Derek knows, not really dealing with it—with anything—too busy trying to make a house of cards into a fortress.

And he had. For the first time, Derek realizes just how hard it must’ve been for them—the humans—after the virus let loose. Derek had been in a coma for a year, missing the initial wave of grief, missing how broken and lost they must’ve been. It wasn’t just the lives of the werewolves that were ripped away that day, but the lives of a whole group of people that were connected to them, left to find their place without their leaders, their friends; lost, confused, broken, a part of them dying with the wolves.

But Stiles, Stiles had emerged like a phoenix, growing to be something beautiful, majestic, placing everyone on his back for his ascent, pulling them from the embers and the ashes and the smoke and making them breathe again. Does he even know what he’s done for them, for all of them? Does he see the blooming happiness on Danny’s face, the love that blossomed between Lydia and Allison, the way they became a family out of the wreckage of disaster? Does he know that it was him that saved Derek? That it was always him with the power to cease the endless fire raging inside of him? Does he see that Derek is happy because of him? Does he know that Derek loves him?

Derek swallows at the recognition. _He loves Stiles_. Like, honest-to-god love that’s making his hands sweaty and his throat tight and his heart ache so sweetly that it’s the worst kind of pain he’s ever felt and he just wants more of it, like a drug, like he could drink down the feeling, drink down the way Stiles makes him feel, like everything is somehow _right_ , like they are right _together_ ; like they belong to each other, and it’s the best thing in the world that Derek could ever imagine.

Derek closes his eyes and drapes an arm over his face, feeling the goofy smile plaster itself to his lips. He’s in love with Stiles—like, ridiculously, head over heels, in love with him—and he lets out a breath that sounds something like a gasp and a laugh and the happiness floods through his veins in a way that warms him from the inside out, warms every part of him, until it carries him away.

It’s at that moment that the hotel room door bangs open and Derek is sitting up from the couch with a barely contained noise, fear chasing the warmth from his blood for a moment, before he sees that it’s just Stiles—just Stiles with blood running down his face. Suddenly it’s hard for Derek to breathe, panic surging low in his stomach as he pushes himself from the couch, closing the distance between them while Stiles struggles with closing the door, coming into the room in a flurry of movement.

“Stiles?” Derek asks, his voice high, worried enough that Stiles looks at him for a moment, but shakes his head, little drops of blood working their way down the curve of his neck to bleed into the collar of his shirt.

Stiles shakes his head again and runs toward the bedroom. “Get your bag. We need to go. Now.” The words are bitten off, barely less than a shout, and it shocks Derek so much that all he can do is stand there as Stiles disappears into the bedroom. He emerges a few seconds later with his bag and heads back to the hotel door. He’s about to open it when he turns back to Derek, as if just now realizing that Derek hasn’t moved. “Derek,” he all but barks, as if to snap him out of his reverie, “move.” The blood on his face is starting to drip toward his eye and he uses the sleeve of his shirt to dab at it, face twisting when he looks down at the red spot.

Derek takes a hesitant step. “You—you’re hurt. Stiles—what—”

Stiles drops his bag and stalks toward Derek in a way that reminds him of a predator and his prey before he is roughly grasping Derek’s shoulders and shaking him so hard that his teeth click together. “Derek, snap out of it.” Derek can feel the barely controlled rage all but pouring out of him, “We have to go. Now. Hurry.”

Stiles lets him go and Derek sways back onto his heels for a moment before the clawing panic is back and he’s running to the kitchen to retrieve his own bag, turning back to see Stiles opening the door and waving him to hurry up. They run down the hallway, electing to take the stairs down, Stiles mumbling something about the blood on his shirt. They make it to the street in record time, Stiles leading them to his rental car, opening the passenger door before all but shoving Derek in, then climbing in himself. He speeds the entire—albeit short—way to the airport, calling the pilot on his cell phone, telling him there was a change of plans and to be ready for their arrival in a few minutes. The ride passes in a tense silence that does nothing to ease Derek’s panic, to staunch his worry and confusion.

They park the car and make their way to the plane at a run, barely letting the stairs descend before they are climbing into the small plane, closing the door behind them. Stiles shoves Derek into one of the seats before he makes his way to the pilot, whispering something that Derek can’t hear. The plane starts to move before Stiles even makes it back to where Derek is sitting.

“Stiles, you’re bleeding.” Derek manages to not make it sound like an accusation and Stiles surprises Derek by dropping down into his lap and wrapping his arms around his neck. He lets out a broken sigh before he pulls away and sits in the seat next to him. “Stiles,” Derek repeats.

Stiles loosens his tie before he pulls it off. “It’s just a cut, Derek. It looks worse than it is. Just bleeding a lot. I’m okay.” He unbuttons his shirt before he takes it off and wads it into a ball to press to his still slowly bleeding forehead.

The plane takes off and they sit in silence for a while before Stiles utters a “fuck,” and pulls out his cell phone. He taps his fingers against his leg and Derek reaches over to grab them, lacing their fingers together. Stiles shoots Derek a quick look, but he lets out a small sigh and tightens his fingers before whoever is on the other line must answer, because then Stiles is speaking. “Allison,” he says and Derek tilts his head in confusion, “I need you to call your dad. We need him and his friends to be here by tomorrow. Tonight if possible. Have them bring any weapon they can think of.” Derek can feel his heart start to beat faster, the fear working its way up his throat like bile. Why is Stiles asking for hunters? “We’re on our way back; I’ll fill you guys in when we get home. Just…be careful, okay? And get your dad.” He hangs up without waiting for a response and turns to Derek, bringing their joined hands to his mouth so that he can press a soft kiss to the back of Derek’s hand.

Derek is finding it harder and harder to breathe past the anxiety. “Stiles—w-what’s going on? What happened?” his words come out shaky, breathy, and he closes his eyes for a long moment before he turns to him. “Where are your guns?”

Stiles looks back at him and Derek can see that he’s struggling to form words—which would’ve been laughable to the Stiles he used to be, but now, Derek knows that he’s just trying to make whatever he needs to say be coherent so he only has to say it once. “I went to the meeting, and it started out just like any other one. I showed them the guns and the boss—Fletcher—seemed to be just looking for things to pick fights over, saying this isn’t what he wants and he was sick of waiting for me to bring him the stuff he needed and he couldn’t get a hold of Argent until finally, I just asked him what he thought I was going to be selling him if he didn’t want the weapons I brought.” He goes quiet for a heartbeat and his hold on Derek’s hand tightens fractionally. “He said he wanted wolfs bane bullets. Said he used the last one he had to take out a doctor that had been helping werewolves.” _Deaton_ , Derek knows, without either of them having to voice it.Stiles hesitates over the next words, “and that he found ‘the last parasite’.” _Me._

“I tried to pretend like I didn’t know what he was talking about, but he hit me over the head with one of my guns. I got out of there as fast as I could, but Derek,” Stiles looks at him, and Derek can see the fear in his eyes, can see how scared he is and he has a fleeting thought that at least he isn’t the only one that’s terrified right now, “he said he knew where to find you. Said he knew where you were hiding.” He lets that sink in a little bit and when it does, Derek can’t help it, he turns away, takes his hand from Stiles’. He goes cold without the skin to skin contact, goes cold at the thought of hunters on his trail. They had probably been watching for any sign of him for months, and Derek had been stupid enough to think he was finally safe—and now everyone he cares about is once again in danger; because of him.

“No,” Stiles says, suddenly on his knees in front of Derek, grasping his hand once more, bringing it to his lips. “No, don’t pull away Derek.” Stiles moves himself so that he is between Derek’s legs, arms wrapping around Derek’s waist, face pressing into his hip. “We won’t let anything happen to you, okay? _I_ won’t let anything happen to you. I promise.”

Derek has a feeling that this might be the one promise Stiles can’t keep, but he doesn’t say anything.

~

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay everyone, just a heads up, there will probably only be one chapter after this one. I just want to seriously extend a massive THANK YOU to anyone that's read this or commented. You guys and gals are amazing and it kind of blows my mind that you like my story enough to keep reading it. So thank you. Seriously. I love you all. 
> 
> As always, any and all comments and/or criticisms are accepted and appreciated!
> 
> Once again, thanks for reading!
> 
> *Note, I also changed my username from concert_hero to clawstoagunfight. Sorry for any confusion!


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Beta'd by B, who I cannot say enough great things about and who has helped me with this story tremendously.

Chris Argent and his hunters arrive sometime during the wee hours of the morning, before the sun has even had a chance to rise, the moon helping to light up the house as Allison and Lydia hover over plans of strategy, explaining in careful whispers to the men and women Chris brought with him. Derek stands aside, hovering in the darkened doorway, too consumed with fear and panic at having a house full of hunters—of people that actively hunted down people like him and slaughtered them—to focus on what’s going on, to focus on the tight faces of Danny and Lydia and Allison. The sheriff is there somewhere, too, Derek knows. He remembers, fleetingly, seeing him on the porch when Stiles and himself arrived, well after the summer sun had set.

Stiles hadn’t said a word to anyone; not until he’d walked Derek up the stairs and to his bedroom with a hollow ‘get some sleep’ before closing the door behind him. Derek only managed to nod off for an hour or so before the slam of a car door had woken him, his fear feeling like it would pound through his chest, sweat running down the back of his neck. He’d run from the room, down the stairs, only to find Allison in the arms of her father in the foyer.

Derek blinked at the sound of Allison’s teary greeting, at the way Chris looked up the stairs to him with so much guilt and pain on his face that Derek blanched, took a step backwards like he could run away from the other man’s remorse. But then Allison had turned around and looked at him, running up the stairs to pull him into a hug, and Derek had breathed a little easier, knowing he still had her, knowing that she was there for him, knowing that Chris could be counted on, at least today, at least for the moment.

The rest of the hunters had arrived quickly after that, parking their miss-matched vehicles along the long drive and slowly making their way to the house. Derek had stood back then, as he’s doing now, unsure of so many people, unsure of their motives, knowing that any of them could flip like a switch and hurt them all. Derek knew it was a possibility, even as Chris introduced the men and women as his friends, as people that followed the code, that respected it, that were outraged, still, by the virus, by the devastation it had caused.

Derek couldn’t judge their sincerity then any better than he can now. There are just too many people, too many potential loose ends, too many people that could turn around and stab them in the back. It makes him sick just to think about it, to think about yet another person’s betrayal ending in the death of someone else that Derek loves. He pushes the thought away, slinking out of the doorway to head into the basement where he knows Danny and Stiles are.

He hasn’t seen Stiles since the hunters arrived and he isn’t sure which of them is avoiding the other, but Derek has a feeling it might be him. With that thought, he steps into the basement, heading down to the end of the corridor until he reaches the weapons room. Danny is sharpening what Derek knows is his best set of knives, his body riddled with holsters for the blades, carefully slipping the sharpened ones in when he finishes them. Danny barely looks up at Derek, giving him a small nod, before he returns his focus to his weapons.

Stiles is in the corner, sitting at a table, cleaning some of his best guns. Derek walks over to him and stands against the wall, silent, watching as Stiles’ long fingers run over the barrel. He doesn’t look up, doesn’t move his eyes from the gun in front of him, but Derek sees the slight fall of his shoulders, as if in relief, and Derek takes a step closer, tentatively trailing a fingertip through the hair at the nape of Stiles’ neck. Stiles pushes back minutely into the touch before he sighs, “Are they making any progress on the plans?”

Derek shrugs, forgetting for a moment that he can’t see him. He runs his thumbs along Stiles’ hairline at his neck, “I wasn’t really paying attention.” He settles his other hand on Stiles’ neck and starts rubbing at the tight flesh, digging his thumbs in to one particularly tight knot.

Stiles grunts a little and puts the clean gun aside before reaching for another. “You should,” he mumbles, “we all need to know the plan. Need to stick to the plan. ‘Specially you, Der.” Stiles turns his head so he can look back at Derek. “We can’t let anything happen to you.” Stiles’ eyes are large and dark, pinning him with a look so intense that it steals the breath from Derek’s lungs. He simply nods and Stiles turns back around. “You should go talk to Lydia and Allison. Get the game plan.”

Derek hesitates a little, his hands stilling on Stiles’ neck, and Stiles turns his head around again. “Derek,” he says, softer this time, “they won’t hurt you—the hunters upstairs. They’re here to help; to protect you. You get that, right?”

Derek looks away from Stiles with a nod, brushing his fingers over his shoulder as he walks out of the room to head back upstairs. He heads back into the living room, only lingering in the doorway for a moment before he walks over to Lydia and Allison, the hunters around them looking at him with a mix of facial expressions that he has no desire to examine further, but they move aside for him. Lydia looks up at him when he brushes shoulders with her, and she gives him a small smile.

“I knew you’d show up eventually. Has anyone ever told you it’s very unbecoming for a grown man to lurk in dark doorways?” She asks and rocks into him a little.

Derek can’t help the quick grin at her playfulness, “Never heard that before in my life.” He motions to the papers spread out on the table in from of them. “So what’s the plan?”

~

It starts with fire.

Derek smells it before he hears it, the smoke thick and black, coming in through an open window right as the sun chases away the night. For an endless moment, as Derek looks out the window, the world is lit up like the end of a cigarette, all brilliant pinks and golds and reds that paint the horizon in a molten hue—he watches as the brilliance falters, as his world starts to burn once again, like an over-exposed photo left in the light, the smoke and flames sieving in through his eyes, paralyzing him, capturing him in its kaleidoscope of tinted cinders, ash and dust floating up as if they could somehow catch the fleeting stars.

The noise hits his ears all at once; the angry buzz of the flames licking over the trees like some sort of wrathful cadence. He watches, helpless, as the fire moves in the distance, forging closer, moving from tree to tree, leaving a path of charred and broken and blistered land in its wake. He barely hears a shout over the blaze, is barely pulled from his stance in front of the window before an arrow whizzes in just passed his head, to settle in the wall opposite the window.

Lydia is suddenly there in his line of vision, slapping at his face. Her lips are moving but all Derek can hear is the sound of burning. She slaps at his face one more time and the sting seems to bring him back, because with sudden clarity, he can hear the shouts of the hunters inside of the house, can hear Lydia telling him to stick to the plan, to get up, to load his gun. His gun. Yes, the gun in his hand. The one Stiles had taught him to shoot on—was it only a number of days ago?—and he does as Lydia tells him, moving out of the vicinity of the window, crawling along the wall until he makes it to the foyer.

Allison is there, helping him to stand before her father opens the front door of the house and runs out, a small group of hunters following him out into the smoke-thick morning with something resembling a battle cry, and then Allison is nodding at Derek as she makes her way out of the house, following her father, her crossbow raised and pointed as she disappears. Lydia is next to make her way out, going around the back with her own small group of hunters. He sees her leave from where he’s perched, not even bothering with a backward glance as she balances her flamethrower and her chemical weapons, being extra careful not to jostle her self-igniting ones, a hunter shutting the door behind her.

_The plan. Stick to the plan._

Derek waits, slowly counting the seconds, trying to block out the sounds of bullets and fire and the zing of arrows and the shouts and screams from people dying. He has to block it out, knows that if he thinks about it, if he thinks, even just for a moment, who it might be screaming, he’ll collapse, he’ll stray from the plan and he’ll let everyone else down. He can’t—won’t let them down; not again.

So he waits, until the counted minutes are up, until the first assault from the front is done—Allison’s—until he knows that the second front—Lydia’s—has had enough time to make it out, to circle around to the side, to march through the blackened forest and tail the group of hunters that were here to hunt him. He takes one last deep, steadying breath before he runs to the back door, Danny already waiting outside for him. He greets him with a grasp at his shoulder before he is running, Derek hot on his trail.

They make it into the woods without encountering any hunters, but they don’t stop until they hit the clearing Lydia denoted as the safe zone. Derek’s glad to see that it looks like the forest fire is slowly dying out in the distance. It must’ve been a scare tactic more than an actual battle maneuver. Derek notices Danny look down at the watch on his wrist, knowing he’s counting down the seconds to the next front, just like Derek is. They reach the number at the same time and Danny looks up, their eyes locking for a long moment. Derek has a sinking feeling that maybe something went wrong, that maybe something happened to Lydia—but then he hears it, even over the dying roar of the fire in the distance. He hears the whoosh of the flamethrower before he sees the thick black smoke bite at the air.

Danny sighs in relief before he walks over to stand in front of Derek, putting an arm around his shoulder, pulling him into a one armed hug. Derek wraps an arm around Danny’s waist and clings, just a little, just for a moment. “How many did you see?” He whispers, his voice barely audible over the distant sounds.

Danny squeezes his shoulder, “maybe forty, forty-five.” Derek nods, resting his cheek on Danny’s shoulder. There were about sixty hunters that arrived with Chris Argent, Derek knows, so the odds are slightly in their favor. Slightly.

Danny drops his arm from around Derek’s shoulders and turns to him, opening his mouth as if to speak, but hesitating a moment before he seems to make up his mind. “Look, I need to tell you something. Stiles didn’t want you to know until after… But, I think you deserve to know.” Derek looks to him, attention rapt. Danny lets out a heavy sigh, “okay. Stiles talked to Argent when he first got here about this Fletcher guy, him being an old customer and all. Apparently—” Danny clears his throat and looks away, “Apparently this guy grew up with him and K-Kate.” Derek feels a little sick at the words; has a sinking feeling like he knows where this is going. “Chris—Chris said that Fletcher was always starting fires when they were younger—burning plants and dead animals that he would find. It wasn’t really ever dangerous stuff, I guess, but a few times he…he took Kate into the woods to show her how to start fires.”

The breath leaves Derek’s lungs in a whoosh that makes his head spin. He feels his legs give out and drops to the underbrush, knees hitting painfully against a rock. He can feel Danny’s hands on his shoulders, grasping tightly; knows Danny must be saying his name by the panic written all over his face, even though he can’t really hear him over the beating of his own heart and the panic clawing at his throat. He shakes his head, “Fine. ‘m fine.” He shakes his head again, harder, taking a deep breath until his heartbeat settles. He lets Danny help him up, “Thanks. For telling me,” the words are quiet.

Danny reaches up and places a hand on the side of Derek’s head, “don’t be mad at Stiles, okay?” Derek looks away from him but nods all the same.

It isn’t until a short while later, when Danny looks down at his watch and frowns, that Derek realizes something’s wrong. It takes a moment for him to place it, and when he does, the panic is back, surging in his veins. The sounds have stopped. The trees in the distance have stopped burning; the roar now nothing more than hisses and crackles of burnt wood, but that isn’t what Derek is listening for. The sound of gunshots has stopped. The buzz of the flamethrower is no longer perceptible. He can’t even hear the whiz of arrows. And lastly—Derek notices with a start—the sound of screams and shots has ceased.

He only has a second—a mere moment—of thinking that maybe, just _maybe_ , it’s over—but he hears a twig snap somewhere to their left, somewhere close by, and then the unmistakable sound of a safety clicking off. He’s in the process of turning toward the sound, but Danny is faster, closer to it, closer to the edge of the clearing, and before Derek can even think about moving, he feels a hand shoving him to the ground at the same time he hears the gun go off.

His back hits the ground with a thud that knocks him breathless and then Danny’s weight is crushing into him. He takes a moment to drag the air back into his lungs, Danny trying—and failing—to push himself from his crushing position over Derek. “Derek!” he’s yelling into Derek’s ear, “run!” Derek tries, pushing at Danny’s shoulder to roll him off and that’s when he sees it—feels the blood warm and sticky under his palm—and he realizes Danny’s been shot.

“Danny!” The word is strangled in his throat, trapped behind his teeth as he rolls Danny onto his side, his fingers working before he can even think about it, placing pressure on the wound.

Danny’s breathing hard, hand moving to clutch over Derek’s on his bleeding shoulder, but he manages to steel himself and rip Derek’s hands away, “Derek, go! I’ll be fine. Get out of here.” He doesn’t move though; can’t. He’s stuck staring at the blood coating Danny’s hand, watching as it sinks under his fingernails, as it slinks down his wrist. He hears another twig snap, closer, and Danny is yelling “run!” before he moves his bloody hand to shove at Derek with as much force as he can muster.

Derek doesn’t waste another second. He runs from the clearing—from the safe zone—and heads deeper into the woods. He hears a muttered curse and the distinct sound of someone chasing after him. But Derek knows these woods; knows them like the back of his hand—maybe better. He knows these woods like they’re a part of his soul, having spent endless hours—days—roaming them with his family when he was younger, before he lost them, but then again, with the pack that he made and built and formed into the next closest thing to a family Derek’s ever had. So he runs. He runs and runs until his lungs are burning and his legs are aching and he pushes further, twisting under the low-hanging branches, jumping over loose roots, startling every time he hears a shot ring out, every time it splinters the bark of a tree near him. He presses on, never looking back to see how far or close the man pursuing him is.

It isn’t until Derek sees the edge of the preserve that he realizes just how far out he’s run, and he hesitates, on the verge of making a sweeping arc back to the clearing—back to where Danny is bleeding out—hoping to dislodge the man following him from his trail—when he hears a shout. He doesn’t hear what is said, doesn’t even know which direction it’s coming from, but he knows—he _knows­_ —without a doubt that it’s Stiles. _He’s still alive_ , he thinks for a moment, letting his eyes close briefly and his shoulders sag in relief.

He isn’t even aware that he’s stopped running—so caught up and overwhelmed with the fact that Stiles is still _alive_ and _safe—_ until he feels a body tackle him and drag him to the ground, knocking the air from his lungs as he lands painfully on his back. He freezes when he sees the man over him; when he feels the barrel of the gun in the man’s hand press against his temple. “My, my. Look what the cat dragged in.”

Derek manages to breathe out the name, “Fletcher,” before the man’s forearm is pressing against his esophagus.

“Don’t you even _think_ my name, you filthy dog.” Fletcher seethes, pressing down on Derek’s throat until he sees spots start in his vision. It’s like a switch goes off inside of Derek and he struggles, trying to dislodge the arm at his throat and the hand holding the gun simultaneously. He manages to knock the gun away—just barely—before the man lets out a scream that makes Derek shudder, his movements faltering, giving the other man just enough leverage to wrap both of his hands around Derek’s neck. “You think you can fight me? _Me?_ ” He shouts; his eyes going more than a little crazy as the hands tighten.

“You are nothing, Hale. Nothing. Everything you were—we took away from you. _I_ took away from you. Just like Kate took it all away from you all those years ago.” Derek digs his fingernails into the flesh at the back of his hands, hoping for leverage, but gaining no purchase. “I bet your mother whined like a bitch when my girl burned her alive. I bet she would’ve smelled so sweet—like fear and burning flesh—mmm.” He leans his head down until his mouth is by Derek’s ear. He can feel his head start to spin with lack of air. “I wish I could’ve been there to watch everything you love go up in flames.”

Derek manages to grab at a thumb digging into his esophagus and pull it away—just a little bit, just a fraction of an inch—but it’s enough that he drags some air back into his aching lungs and coughs out “the…virus— _you_.” But then he loses his grip and Fletcher’s hands push back against his throat, closing them tighter this time, until Derek feels the strength in his arms fail.

A laugh rings out and it takes Derek a long moment—too long—to realize that Fletcher is laughing, his head thrown back, and it makes shivers crawl down his spine. “Of course it was me, you stupid animal. I saw what you did to Gerard. I saw the monster you made out of him; something less than human, fallen so far from the great man he used to be.” He leans down, a smirk playing over his face as he looks Derek in the eye. “Did you know he bled black when I cut him in half? Black; like the night; like the horrible beast he threw his life away in hopes of becoming.” The man laughs again and shrugs, his hands tightening infinitesimally. “He played his part though, when I cremated him and used his ashes in the virus; when I used his infection to infect the rest of your kind. And oh…it worked so well, didn’t it? It was your disease, after all; your bite that caused Gerard’s sickness; his sickness that ultimately killed every last _thing_ that he tried so hard to become. There’s a beautiful kind of symmetry to that, don’t you think? I used a hunter to kill every last werewolf, to finally rid the world of something that’s been plaguing it for centuries.”  

The words are starting to buzz in Derek’s head, so that he can barely even understand. But he does. He does understand, and it makes him sick, makes him wish that Fletcher would just finally _end_ it—end him—because Derek doesn’t deserve to live. Everything circles back to Derek; everything starts and ends with him, just like he’s always known it would. It’s his fault—all of it; it always has been. It was always his mistakes that caused the most pain, his mistakes that ended in death and destruction, his mistakes that never seemed to be amended or atoned, his mistakes that took every single person he’s ever loved. It was always him, and it always would be.

“All but one.” The words are faint, “All but you, Derek.”

That’s when the fight goes out of him; when he can feel it leave with an almost visceral reaction and everything inside of him just stops, for a moment—frozen with the knowledge that he wants— _needs_ —to finally end this shame and guilt and misery. He closes his eyes, or maybe his eyelids finally just fall, the weight of his thoughts to heavy too keep them up any longer. The blackness starts to pull over him like some sort of smoky blanket, wrapping him up in waves of inky suffocation. A part of him craves it, thinks it’s finally what he deserves—but a small part of him—so small it’s like a whisper—thinks of Stiles, and he can almost hear his voice cutting through the shadowy darkness of his mind.

It’s like a struggle inside of him—thoughts of Stiles looking for purchase, urging him to stay, to keep holding on, while simultaneously, thoughts of his packs—his twin families—and the endless loop of feedback his life has caused. He thinks that he can hear Stiles’ voice—just a little—just barely—and it wins out. He opens his eyes, using the last traces of his strength to bring a knee up, jabbing it hard into the man’s groin. He topples over, his hands leaving Derek’s neck and Derek coughs, head dizzy as he tries to swallow air, re-learn how to work his throat, how to drag lungfuls of smoke tinged air back into his lungs.

He manages to take a shallow breath and turns a little onto his side, as if he could crawl away, willing his tired limbs and muscles to work. He can’t move, though, not yet. His body is shaking; mouth gasping for drags of air. The cocking of a gun cuts through the air—cuts through the blood thrumming in his veins—and he looks up to see Fletcher holding his discarded pistol, leveling it at him as he slowly stands. “Oh, I am going to enjoy killing you.”

Derek takes a deep breath, only managing to cough a little, as he makes a decision, “so do it already.”

Fletcher lets out an inhuman growl and the sounds and smells of gunfire singes the air. Two shots. Two bullets. Two marks.

He has a moment to register that Fletcher is collapsing, grasping at his thigh in an effort to staunch the bleeding from where he’s been shot, seemingly by someone in the distance, before the pain ignites inside of him and shoots into every nerve ending, until all he feels is the rapid white hot burn of it eating away at him. He has a fleeting thought that it’s so different to be shot as a human—knowing that he can no longer heal—feeling the flare of agony and knowing that it won’t go away, that it won’t be over in just another moment—knowing that it is permanent—knowing that this is a killing blow, even as he clutches a hand weakly to his stomach; to where the blood is pouring from the wound, dripping down over his hand, over the top of his jeans, muddying the ground under him.

He coughs and tastes blood; bitter, metallic, tasting of his own fragility.

He hears the snap of a twig and soft footfalls crunching through the undergrowth, before he lifts his head minutely to see Stiles walking toward them. His eyes aren’t on Derek, but instead are glued to Fletcher with a violent ferocity, an ardent calm settling over his face as he raises his gun and aims it at Fletcher’s head. “Y’know,” he whispers, the underlying fury barely contained, “sometimes I think that hell must be empty, because all the devils are here. But then, I remember something you seem to have forgotten.” His gun doesn’t waver or falter as he takes a stalking step forward, his face closing down; his eyes hardening until all traces of the Stiles Derek used to know are gone. “You’re human, and you can die just like the rest of us.” With those words, Stiles pulls the trigger, the bullet hitting home at the dead center of his forehead. Fletcher falls to the ground with a sick thud, traces of surprise still lingering on his face as his body crumples onto the forest floor.

Derek’s body shudders with pain and he coughs again, feeling more blood on his lips. “Stiles,” he mumbles his name like a mantra, like it’s the only thing he can think of, the only thing that matters—and it is. Stiles looks at him, like he’s finally seeing him, and Derek watches as the callousness is chased from his face, as he pales and throws his gun aside, running to Derek’s side and dropping to his knees.

“Derek! Derek, stay with me.” His hands cover Derek’s and press them tighter over his bleeding stomach, “hey, it’ll be okay. It’s over now. He’s dead. It’s all over. You’re going to be f-fine,” Stiles’ voice breaks when Derek coughs once more and feels blood start to dribble down his chin.

“Stiles,” he whispers, the word barely audible, but Stiles looks at him, really looks at him, and Derek can see the glaze of tears in his eyes, “love…you. I—love you.”

Stiles’ hands press painfully into his wound as he nods frantically, “I know, Derek. God—I know.” He watches as Stiles swallows hard, his Adam’s apple bobbing almost painfully. “I love you, Derek. I love you so much. You can’t—” he presses his lips into a tight line for a moment before he speaks again, “you can’t leave me. I need you. Derek—” his lips tremble and Derek watches—mesmerized—as a tear works its way down Stiles’ cheek, trailing over the skin, shining like a beacon in the early morning sunlight.

The sound of shuffling footsteps in the underbrush makes both of them look through the trees and Stiles tenses where he’s perched next to Derek on the ground. Derek sighs with relief when he sees who it is. Allison and Lydia are supporting Danny, careful of his injured arm, and guiding him towards them. He notices that Allison has a few cuts and scrapes on her face, and it looks like Lydia has a nasty burn on her arm, but they are okay—they are alive—and for a moment, the realization makes the pain biting at every inch of his body lower into something like a simmer and he manages to make a small smile.

He hears the three of them gasp in unison, Derek belatedly remembering the blood running down his chin and it’s like the pain slams into him at full force. The three of them are moving toward him and Stiles in a flurry of movement that Derek’s pain muddled mind can’t quite keep up with. “Help me!” Stiles yells, his voice nearing the only kind of hysteria Derek has ever heard from him. “He—he’s been shot.”

Allison and Lydia immediately drop to their knees, “Danny,” Allison says without giving him a glance, her eyes focused on Derek’s wound, “call the sheriff. Get an ambulance.”

Derek looks up to see Danny, his face graying as he takes in the body of the hunter a mere feet from them, and then he looks at Derek and reaches for his cell phone. “Derek,” Lydia whispers, “Derek, look at me.” Derek does as she says, like he’s in a fog, like it’s a compulsion. She’s giving him a watery smile, “you’re gonna be all right, big guy. Okay?” She just nods her head a few too many times when Derek can’t bring himself to answer before she looks at Stiles.

He’s looking at Derek and Derek catches his eye. They look at each other for a long, silent moment, and Derek sees something inside of Stiles change; sees when he finally realizes that Derek won’t—can’t—live through this. He sees the devastation for a moment, but then Stiles is pushing it down, “I need help. I can’t get enough pressure on his wound to stop the bleeding. I need your hands. All of them.”

Derek is faintly aware of Danny dropping down on his side opposite Stiles. Allison is already reaching out toward Derek’s stomach, tears making swift lines down her cheeks as she settles her hands over Stiles’. Danny drops his phone onto the ground behind him and uses his good arm to move his bad one, until both of his hands are centered over Allison’s. Lydia is still nodding frantically, but does as Stiles says.

Derek moves a hand out from under all of theirs to settle on top of the pile, resting his bloody fingers so they span across the backs of their hands. “It’s…no…use.” He gasps out, before a fit of coughing wracks his body and his vision blacks out for a moment.

When he opens his eyes, he sees Stiles looming over him, face mere inches away, and he can feel the warmth of his palm pressed to his cheek. It feels almost too warm—and slick—and that’s when Derek realizes Stiles’ palm is slick with his own blood—but he can’t bring himself to care. Stiles is touching him, is looking at him like Derek holds all the secrets in the world, like the thought of losing him makes something break inside of him, but he just moves closer, even as Derek reads the heartbreak in his eyes, and he feel Stiles other hand—the hand still pressing against his on his wound—move down harder. “We are _not_ letting you die on us, Derek. Not again. Not this time.” With that, Stiles closes the distance between them and moves his lips until they are pressing softly against his own.

Stiles’ lips are warm and firm, their heat blooming over Derek’s lips, flooding out to the rest of his body. The hands on his stomach move when he shivers at the heat of Stiles’ kiss, and he can feel them, all of their hands, pressing against him. He has a moment—when the warmth of all them pressing against his bloody skin, of his best friends—his _family_ —trying to physically push the life back into his broken body—when he feels something he thought he lost long ago. It rushes out of him like a wave; the happiness, the contentment, the joy. Right here, right now, with the people he loves surrounding him, he thinks that maybe—maybe—he’s been waiting his whole life for this moment to die. Right now, he doesn’t feel the loss of his family, the loss of his pack; he isn’t thinking about Laura, or Peter, or his mother, or Scott. Right now, he’s thinking about Stiles, and Lydia, and Allison, and Danny, and of how they rebuilt him—about how they gave him a new chance at life, how they showed him what it is to matter—what it is to love.

He thinks that he knows why death never claimed him before now; why it took everyone but him, again and again. Everything in Derek’s life has led him to this point. Everything he used to be, everything he is, has led him to this moment, has led him to the realization that his life has had a reason—if only to die here and now—because, for the first time in longer than Derek can remember, he feels the power of love—so simple and unconditional, and it breaks out inside of him. The heat of his love burns inside of him and he has to close his eyes against it, because it’s almost too much, and he doesn’t know if he can handle it—even as it spreads, as it flows into every inch of him, thrumming under his skin like something living, like his life force is an entity of its own that lives inside of him and is reaching out—and the white hot burn just grows, reaching a crescendo that whites out his vision and makes a cry break from his lips.

Derek opens his eyes in a blind panic, thinking that this is it—this is the end—and he wants Stiles to be the last thing he sees—but when his eyes focus, Stiles is no longer bending down toward him; he isn’t even looking at Derek’s face, the hand that was on his face now covering Derek’s atop the stack of hands. Instead, his eyes, like Danny’s and Lydia’s and Allison’s, are all trained on where their hands are still pressing against his wound. Derek follows their gaze, wondering if some internal organ was starting to spill out to keep their attention so rapt—and starts when he sees what they’re looking at.

Their arms—all except Derek’s—have white lines snaking under the skin, crawling down from their shoulders, the bend of their elbows, their forearms, to turn almost solid in their fingers and then disappear where their flesh meets Derek’s skin. He watches, transfixed, as the white lines keep coming, sliding down under the skin of their arms, and he raises his head to get a better look, to try to figure out what could possibly be going on—and what it means.

He strains his neck to get a better angle and realizes that he can breathe normally, the pain and tenderness from when Fletcher was strangling him now nothing more than a twinge of discomfort. He stills for a moment, taking stock of his body, like he used to do when he was a wolf, assessing the damage. It takes a long moment for him to realize that he feels better, the pain lessening into something tolerable, the unbearable warmth fading into something like a tepid glow.

He swallows hard, aware of just how dry his throat feels, and has to try twice before he can force the word out. “Stiles?” he asks, his voice a rough whisper, but Stiles’ head snaps to the side to look at him, his gaze tearing away from their arms.

“Derek,” he breathes out, the set of his shoulders sagging in relief. The last of the lines on his arms disappear by his fingers and he pulls his hands out from the pile to grab at Derek’s face and cradle it between his palms. Derek can feel his warm breath on his cheek before Stiles is leaning down to kiss him once again. All Derek can taste is Stiles and he smiles, pulling his hands from the rest so that he can wrap them around Stiles and pull him closer. Stiles presses another kiss to Derek’s lips before he pulls back, a smile splitting across his face. “How do you feel?”

Derek lets his hands drop from Stiles’ body and he gets up onto his elbows. His head doesn’t spin at the movement and he counts that as a win. Danny, Lydia, and Allison are all slowly taking their hands away from his stomach and looking at him with big eyes. He looks at them all for a long moment, almost not believing what he sees. The cuts and scrapes on Allison’s face are all healed, the worst cut now nothing more than a thin, barely there line. Where Lydia’s burn on her arm used to be is now just a patch of baby pink skin, like it’s freshly healed. Derek looks to Danny next, to see that the previously gaping hole in his shoulder has closed and all that remains is a small circle of a scar, already faded to white.

He sits up like a rocket, leveraging his weight onto one hand, using the other to feel at his stomach. It takes a moment to push passed the disappointment when he feels the blood still sticky and warm on his stomach, to actually _feel_ at the wound. But there’s nothing there. The skin feels unbroken—healed somehow—just like everyone else’s wounds.

He opens his mouth but nothing comes out. Everyone is looking at him. He clears his throat, and tries to speak again, “But…how?” He lifts the bloody tatters of his shirt up his abdomen to show them that the wound that had been there—that had been a killing blow, nonetheless—is gone, as if it had never existed.

Stiles surprises him by being the first to speak. “I-I read about this once—in the bestiary.” Four heads swivel in his direction. He looks between all of them for a beat before he continues. “It’s supposed to be…a pack thing…but, like, ridiculously rare.” He looks to Derek, his eyes wide. “You have to believe me, I had no idea that it was even real, or that humans even had that kind of potential—”

“Stiles,” Lydia interrupts him, looking down at where her burn used to be. “What does that mean? Where was anything like this in the bestiary?”

That’s when Derek remembers that Lydia translated it for them all those years ago and he looks between the two of them, waiting for Stiles to tell them what’s going on. “Okay,” Stiles sighs, “Do you remember that entry about healing alpha wounds? About betas helping to heal their alpha if they’d been injured—like by another alpha, so that it was a killing blow?” He asks the group at large.

Lydia nods, her eyes narrowing, and Derek nods as well, faintly remembering reading it, but knowing that he dismissed it as nonsense; betas couldn’t heal an alpha.

“And how does that explain what just happened?” Allison’s soft voice raises the question.

Stiles sighs and he puts out an arm. “Because, according to the myth, the betas healed the alpha by gathering around it and _pushing healing into the wound_.  It—it’s supposed to work differently than when a werewolf takes pain. When they take the pain, they kind of consume it—like they feel the pain that they’ve taken for a moment, but because of their healing powers, it’s fleeting.” Stiles licks his lips and looks to Derek, “right?”

Derek simply nods and Stiles starts again, “Okay, but _healing_ works completely different. It’s about using your own health, and giving it to the alpha, to better the pack. A stronger alpha makes a stronger pack and all that. So, the betas would give up a little of their own health to the alpha, and then when the alpha was healed, he would in turn help heal them.” He lets out a sharp breath, “think of it as a feedback loop, if you will.”

Derek sits up a little more and Stiles automatically reaches out, placing a hand on the back of his neck. Derek leans into the touch, “but,” he starts, his eyebrows drawing together in confusion, “I’m not a werewolf; not anymore. And none of you were ever werewolves.”

Stiles is shaking his head, moving in closer to Derek, smiling softly at him. “No, that’s true. But even after you lost your wolf, you never stopped being our alpha.”

Derek feels like a knot inside of him loosens with those words, and he ask softly, tentatively, “really?”

Stiles barks out a laugh and moves into the circle of Derek’s arms, his arms snaking around Derek’s waist, pressing a soft kiss to his neck, and Derek can feel Stiles’ lips at his throat curve into a grin. Stiles’ smile is contagious and Derek feels a laugh break free from his own lips. He looks over Stiles’ shoulder to see the other three looking at him with matching grins, all nodding their agreement. He feels floored for a long moment, the love springing up in him once more and he doesn’t think about it, just opens his arms to them, and laughs when they surge forward all at once and knock him and Stiles over.

“I love you—all of you. I love you so much,” Derek murmurs the words, hands moving over which ever person he can find, pulling them all into the tightest embrace he can manage from the bottom of the pile. He lets out a long breath, feeling the bodies over him shift into more comfortable positions. A sense of calm spreads over him, seeps into every crevice of his body; for a moment, he feels weightless—drunk with it—and then Stiles shifts closer to him, nuzzling into the crook of his neck.

“We love you too, Derek.” He presses one last kiss to the pulse of his throat, before he moves his arms so that they are free, accidentally elbowing someone—Danny—and lifting his head up enough to look into Derek’s eyes, ignoring Danny’s small sound of protest even as he sighs and moves closer to Lydia. “We’re your pack now; for better or worse.” He reaches a hand out and cups Derek’s cheek, thumb stroking over the curve of it. “You don’t ever have to be alone again.”

~

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow. It's finally finished. For something that started as a 1,000 word prompt, this thing grew some legs and walked all over me.
> 
> If you read this, thank you. I would love any and all feedback you have for me. Any and all comments and/or criticisms are accepted and appreciated. 
> 
> Once again, thanks, and I hope you enjoyed this story!

**Author's Note:**

> So, this started out as a prompt and somehow got away from me, but I'm sharing it anyway. This is just a side story, so I can't guarantee speedy updates, but I'll do my best.
> 
> As always, any and all comments and/or criticisms are accepted and appreciated!
> 
> Thanks for reading!


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